


LIBRARY 

G3fjajtX J S,r 

Sli 

OF CONGRESS. 

’Copgrigfrl fa. 

,elf4^05 c 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 






* 


■ 


























































































































































-• . •?; • I 














. 


















































































































































































































' 






































































































































































































































































































































» 










































































fl — -'l 























































































' 
































































. 




















■* 


































The Colonel’s Charge. 


A COMPANION VOLUME TO 


“THE LITTLE CORPORAL.” 



BY 


CARLISLE B. HOLDING, 


Author of “Her Ben,” “The Little Corporal,” and other War 

Stories. 



CINCINNATI : 

CRANSTON & STOWE. 
NEW YORK : 

HUNT & EATON. 
1891. 



Copyright 

By CRANSTON & STOWE, 
1891 . 



GOI^TE^TS. 


CHAPTER I. 

Page. 

KlUEED IN BaTTEE, 7 

CHAPTER II. 

Direct from the Front, 17 

CHAPTER III. 

Some Soldiers True, 26 

CHAPTER IV. 

Promotion, 34 

CHAPTER V. 

A Widening Circee, 41 

CHAPTER VI. 

The Night Watch, 54 

CHAPTER VII. 

A Great Day 69 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The Scouting Party, 87 

3 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Page- 

The Retreat, 98 

CHAPTER X. 

A Daring Deed, 112 

CHAPTER XI. 

Eight Out of Darkness, 117 

CHAPTER XII. 

The Coeonee’s Story, 128 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Theodore’s Theory, 142 

CHAPTER XIV. 

A Mystery, 148 

CHAPTER XV. 

Eight in Dark Peaces, 168 

CHAPTER XVI. 

A Sunday Surprise, 186 

CHAPTER XVII. 

A Broken Chain, 197 

CHAPTER XVIII. 


Separated 


208 


CONTENTS. 


5 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Page. 

Up the River, 223 

CHAPTER XX. 

In Comfortable Quarters, 236 

CHAPTER XXI. 

A Fortunate Meeting, 253 

CHAPTER XXII. 

A New Name, 267 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

The News in Camp, ....*. 281 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

His Own Home, 289 

CHAPTER XXV. 

A Sharp Sword, 297 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

A Marksman’s Skill, 309 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

A Good Will, 321 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A Good Beginning, 338 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

A Final Reckoning, 345 













































































*sjy »si>* «sU -sU »sL^ •\F* n]/* «\F* *sl/* *vU* ♦sj/* *s\jf 

~ 7 •^^»^Q0^3oeX>jt ^ .+ .^ j£?qL+ *A 



The Colonel’s Charge. 


Chapter J. 


killed in battle. 



HERE has been a battle!” 


In breathless haste; Ernest Henry rushed 
into the sitting-room, where Miss Eou Smith 
was busy with work for the Sanitary Commis- 
sion Fair, to be held in Shepherdstown the next 
week. He came in without knocking, for he 
brought the daily paper just arrived on the 
morning train, and when on such an errand had 
been told not to pause for ceremony, nor to leave 
the paper at the door. 

“Where?” asked Miss Smith, looking up 
quickly, and dropping her work to take the paper 
which Ernest was unfolding, that he might hand 
it to her with the telegraphic news from the battle- 
field prominent, and right under her eyes. 

“ I am not quite sure where — on the Tennes- 
see River, though; and — and — ” looking over 


7 


8 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE . 


the paper hastily, stealing a glance, the mean- 
while, at Miss Lou, who stood waiting his an- 
nouncement ; for he was bright and quick, and 
she knew from past experience that he would 
give her the gist of the news in a few words, 
and before she could find it in the paper if left 
alone. “And the Fourteenth was in it.” 

“The Fourteenth!” she exclaimed, sinking 
into her chair, and reading from Ernest’s hesi- 
tation and continued folding and turning of the 
paper that he had a message he feared to de- 
liver. “ Tell me, Ernest, was — is there a list? — 
who — were — wounded — or — or — killed ?” 

Ernest dropped his papers on a chair, and, 
holding this one for Miss Lou up before his 
face, both arms outstretched, he made a pretense 
of hunting for the list of killed and wounded, the 
meanwhile choking back a sob. In spite of all his 
courage his lips quivered, and he said, chokingly : 
“Here’s a list, Miss Lou, and — and — it says, — 
O, Miss Lou ! he is — killed !” 

“No, Ernest; no, no, no! — not that, Ernest! 
Let me see! Show me the place!” 

With pallid face and trembling hands, Miss 
Lou took the paper and read where Ernest 
pointed; and under the heading, “Killed,” she 
read: “Captain Smith, Company B, Fourteenth 
Regiment.” 

“My brother! my poor, poor brother! How 


KILLED IN BATTLE. 


9 


can I live!” she sobbed in tearful grief, and 
Ernest stood by, weeping silently, trying to think 
of something to comfort her. 

“It is sometimes wrong, Miss Eou,” he said 
at last, his hot tears blinding his eyes and drop- 
ping upon the bundle of papers he had again 
taken into his arms. He was not a newsboy nor 
paper-carrier, but from pure sympathy for those 
who had no one to go to the post-office or news- 
stand for them, had undertaken to deliver to all 
his neighbors, every noon, the daily papers from 
the city. He lived next door to Miss Lou, and 
was a great favorite with her. 

“ What ’s wrong?” she said, looking up, eagerly 
jumping at his meaning. 

“The list,” he said, drying his tears, for his 
own heart was comforted by the words he spoke 
to her. 

“Is it ever?” she asked again. “Do you 
know that, Ernest? Has it ever been wrong, 
Ernest, that you know of?” 

“Yes, Miss Eou, it has. When Cousin Dick 
was wounded at Donelson the paper said he was 
killed.” 

“And he was not killed at all?” 

“No; only wounded.” 

“And the paper said he was killed?” 

“Yes, Miss Eou, all the papers but one said 
he was killed.” 


IO 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


“All but one ! Which one was that, Ernest?” 

“The Journal 

“And this is — ” picking up the paper she 
had dropped. 

“The Tribune ,” said Ernest. 

“Get me a Journal , Ernest ; go, right off, now 
that ’s a dear boy. How you comfort me, Ernest ! 
I will not forget you — never!” 

“I can not, Miss Lou; they do not come until 
six o’clock.” 

“Six o’clock! How long to wait! Will you 
get me one then, Ernest? If it says ‘Wounded,’ 
hire the hackman at the depot to drive you here ; 
do n’t wait to walk. I will pay you and him, too. 
Will you go to the depot, Ernest, and get one of 
the train-boy ? Do not wait for the mail to come 
up and be opened. Do you think it will be dif- 
ferent, Ernest?” 

“Yes, Miss Lou, I do; may be not different 
in the Journal , but it will be different, I know.” 

“Do you, Ernest? God bless you, my boy, 
for your faith! You bright light of my loneli- 
ness, what would I do without you?” 

Ernest turned to leave the room, and said : 
“What would we all do without you, Miss Lou? 
I am nothing.” 

“You are everything to me now, Ernest. 
You are my own brave boy.” 

Those were days of intense feeling, and when 


KILLED IN BATTLE. 


II 


mutual interests of the most precious kind made 
hearts warm and tender, and led to expressions 
of friendship and affection that seem extravagant 
in these quiet days — the war having closed a 
quarter of a century ago. 

Ernest had so often heard Miss Lou praise 
him, and had so often been told how she loved 
him, that he was not disturbed by her warm 
words, nor by the momentary clasping of his 
face between her hands, as she begged him to 
hurry home with the Evening Journal. 

When he had gone to carry his papers to the 
rest of his friends, she sat down to read the news 
of the battle at Pittsburg Landing, persistently 
putting aside as untrue that dreadful line that 
at first had smote her heart so sorely. Not 
until the Journal confirmed the news would she 
believe it. 

All that afternoon she sat in the big chair, 
sorrowful but hopeful, surprising the scores of 
friends who had read the list in the morning 
papers and had come to condole with her, by her 
calmness and unfaltering faith in the better 
news to come. They shook their heads doubt- 
fully, but she waited patiently, though at times 
tearfully, for the evening paper. She had no 
lack of company — a half-dozen ladies waited 
with her. 

They heard the distant roar of the train as 


12 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


it thundered through the deep cut at the out- 
skirts of the town ; they heard the nearer rumble 
and clatter of the cars as they swept across the 
bridge ; they heard the sharp blast of the whistle, 
the clang of the bell, as it rang out the summons 
to all to hurry, for it would soon be gone; and 
* then the puff! puff! of the engine starting again, 
and they knew suspense was over and in five 
minutes they would have the Journal in their 
hands. 

Miss Lou did not leave the big chair, nor did 
any of the ladies speak as they listened to the 
coming train, and followed its fast-dying sounds 
as it rushed away. She hid her face in her 
hands, and silently prayed for grace to bear up, 
whatever the news should be. 

Out in the street the hackman was urging 
his horses forward. First they sprang away from 
the depot in a brisk trot, under the lash, and 
as they turned off the main thoroughfare, they 
sped on by bounds, and finally settled to a full 
gallop. They were bearers of good news ! Ernest 
sat by the driver — they two the only occupants 
of the bouncing, light, old-fashioned hack — 
and added his cheering words to the lashing 
whip. 

A lady stood gazing out of the window at 
Miss Lou’s house, peering down the street to see 
if she could catch a glimpse of Ernest coming. 


KILLED IN BATTLE. 


*3 

“A runaway!” she screamed, as she saw the 
horses dashing toward her. 

“Then he is safe!” Cried Miss Lou, spring- 
ing from her chair to join her friend at the win- 
dow. 

“It is Ernest!” she said as the lad leaped 
from the hack-seat before the wheels had come 
to a stand-still at the door. 

“It is so, Miss Lou!” he cried, rushing into 
the room. “The Journal says, Wounded!” 

With this he spread the paper out on the table 
under the lamp, which had just been brought 
in, and showed all present the account of the 
first day’s fight at Pittsburg Landing, in which 
was given a list of killed and wounded; and 
among the latter was the name of Captain Smith. 

“ How thankful I am!” Miss Lou said, bright- 
ening perceptibly under the good news. 

“But are you not worried?” said one; “for 
see, who knows how severely he is hurt? It 
may be a mortal wound.” 

Instinctively Miss Lou turned to Ernest to 
hear his answer to this suggestion which came 
to her with unexpected terribleness. 

“No,” he said, turning to the paper, “for 
here is a list of ‘ Mortally Wounded.’ His name 
is not there, but under ‘ The Wounded.’ ” 

And with this answer they were all satis- 
fied, and the company dispersed, leaving Miss 


14 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

Lou alone with her housekeeper and her other 
help. 

That night, as she knelt beside her bed be- 
fore retiring, she prayed, out of a full heart: “ I 
thank thee, Father in heaven, that ray brother 
is not dead, but lives, though wounded. Be near 
him to comfort him and to sustain and to restore. 
Bring him to me again, Father of love ! Let thy 
choicest blessing fall upon our dear friend, Ernest 
Henry. I thank thee for his faith and his love.” 
And then she prayed for all the sore-hearted, the 
wounded and dying, the broken in spirit, the 
men who faced death for country’s sake, and 
those who ruled at the Nation’s Capital. 

As she was about retiring the door-bell rang 
violently, and she waited in the hall above to 
hear what the caller wanted. 

“A telegram, Miss Lou!” called the house- 
keeper, from below. 

A telegram ! What a cruel blow it dealt the 
suffering soul! It was from an acquaintance 
who was clerk in the adjutant-general’s office at 
the State capital. He thought he was doing a 
kindness when he hastily wrote that message that 
night, and hurried it off on the lightning’s wing: 

“ Miss Lou Smith, — C aptain Smith killed. Hickman.” 

As she read the fatal words she sank upon 
the stairs, at the foot of which she was standing, 


KILLED IN BATTLE. 


15 


and gasped for breath. She did not cry — not a 
tear relieved her agony. She did not sob ; she 
could scarcely breathe. Finally she said with 
effort, her parched lips refusing almost to utter 
the words: “Send — for — Mrs. Henry — and — 
and — Ernest. Eet — me — lie here — on the sofa — 
until they — come.” 

They came. Others came. The pastor of the 
Church was sent for about midnight, and he 
came with a great heart full of sympathy. After 
the battle at Donelson he received just such a 
message, only it said, “Charlie Hopkins fell in 
the front rank at first fire,” and the light went 
out of his home, for Charlie was his only son. 

“ It is so kind of you to come,” Miss Eou said ; 
“ but you have your heart full of your own sor- 
row, without sharing mine.” 

“Yes, I have my own sorrow, but there is 
still room for the trouble of any patriot mother 
or sister. This cruel, cruel war!” 

“ Ernest is all I have left now,” Miss Eou 
said, drawing the lad to a seat beside her. “ We 
will not give up yet; will we, Ernest?” 

She meant that though her brother was num- 
bered with the dead, and though Ernest’s father 
had fallen at Belmont, they would still dare and 
do for the cause in which their loved ones had 
perished. Ernest understood her to mean she 
would not give up hope that the Captain yet 


16 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

lived, and said, calmly: “No, indeed, Miss Lou, 
for I know he will come back.” 

“ Not brother?” she asked eagerly. 

“Yes, Miss Lou, the captain.” 

“ I wish I had your hopefulness.” 

“ Why so?” asked the pastor, addressing 
Ernest. 

“ The news in the paper is better than the 
word from Springfield, for the newspaper corre- 
spondent is on the field, and knows what he 
sends.” 

But this solution was not accepted as good, 
and the night wore away slowly, one by one 
leaving until Miss Lou was quite alone again. 
Exhausted, she fell asleep on her bed, undressed 
and unattended, awaking after the sun had 
been shining full in her face for several minutes, 
through the window left uncurtained in their 
excitement that night. 



Chapter* JJ. 

DIRECT FROM THE FRONT. 

I T was a beautiful morning. Earth was feel- 
ing the first touches of spring. The air was 
balmy, and the whole prospect of budding trees 
and flowering shrubs inspiring. Miss Eou 
walked to the window, pushed back the curtain, 
and sighed heavily, as she looked upon glad 
nature, and contrasted therewith the somberness 
and sadness of her own life. Coming up the 
street was none other than Hessie Hickman, the 
captain’s friend, who had sent the telegram. Her 
eyes filled with tears as she watched him moving 
rapidly towards her home. As he drew nearej, 
and she noted the smile on his face and re- 
marked how he stopped and shook hands with 
a neighbor he met, and even laughed, her heart 
was hardened toward him ; for how could he 
laugh and be so happy-mannered when the man 
he professed to love so much as a friend was 
dead on the field of battle ! 

She hoped he would not stop. He would 
2 17 


l8 1 HE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

have no tears to shed with her, and only such 
friends as could feel her sorrow did she care to 
see. But he did stop. She heard him ask for 
Miss Lou. She heard the maid show him to a 
seat in the parlor. She did not want to see him, 
but would go down. 

“I will be there in a minute,” she called from 
the hall, as the girl was coming up to tell her 
of his request to see her. 

“Ah! Miss Lou,” he said cheerfully, advanc- 
ing to meet her, extending his hand ; “ I con- 
cluded, after I sent the message, to run over, 
myself. I caught the midnight train, and just 
got in.” 

She gave him her hand, but quickly withdrew 
it without returning the warm pressure with 
which he received it, and sank into a chair, sob- 
bing convulsively. 

“It is too bad,” he said, softly and sympa- 
thetically, surprised at the intensity of her emo- 
tion, for he had always reckoned her as brave 
and strong, able to endure to the utmost. 

She did not reply nor look up, but hid her 
face in her handkerchief and wept silently. 

After a minute or two, Mr. Hickman ventured 
to remark consolingly : 

“ It is not so bad with you as with many, 
Miss Lou.” 

She shook her head, and after a little man- 


DIRECT FROM THE FRONT. 1 9 

aged to say, brokenly, from the folds of her 
handkerchief : 

“How — could — it be worse!” 

“ Why,” said her friend, hesitatingly, not 
knowing what was best to say, since her man- 
ner was so surprising to him; “why — he — might 
have been killed !” 

“What is that?” she asked, looking at him 
for the first time, her hands clasped and in her 
lap, while she resolutely shut her lips tight to- 
gether to keep back the great sob that nearly 
choked her, and her look was almost fierce in 
her eagerness to hear from his lips one little 
word of hope. 

“ He might have been killed,” Mr. Hickman 
repeated. 

“ Might have been!” she exclaimed. “ Might 
have been ! I do not understand.” 

“Did you not get my message?” he asked 
excitedly. 

“Yes, yes; and it was so cruel.” She burst 
into tears and sobbed. 

“ Miss Lou, how was it cruel? I meant it to 
be a kindness.” 

“ The paper said he was wounded,” she said, 
with bowed head, “you said he was killed. My 
poor, poor brother !” 

“ I said he was killed ! The paper said he 
was wounded! My dear Miss Smith, that is 


20 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


a cruel mistake. Where is my telegram? Let 
me see it.” 

It was sent for, up-stairs, and Mr. Hickman 
walked the floor nervously while he waited for 
it, not seeking to unravel the mystery until he 
should have the paper in his hand. When he 
had read it, he said sadly: 

“Ah ! I see, my dear Miss Smith. How cruel 
this mistake! Let me tell you. The morning 
paper said the captain was killed; late in the 
day our office got positive word that he was only 
wounded. I wrote, hastily, this telegram, but I 
said : ‘ Captain Smith is not killed.’ I saw no 
paper that said he was wounded, and I wanted 
you to be relieved at once ; so I sent the mes- 
sage, and am now here to say he is not killed, 
but only wounded, and not mortally wounded at 
that.” 

“Not killed!” she said, looking at Mr. Hick- 
man as he stood before her ; and then her face 
lighted up with a smile. “Forgive me,” reach- 
ing out her hand to him, “for doubting you. 
I saw you gay and cheerful when I was broken- 
hearted, and I rebelled against your heartless- 
ness. Forgive me for brother’s sake.” 

“ Please do not mention it. I do not blame 
you. No, no, Miss Smith, my heart was broken, 
all day, until the good news came, and then I 
sent it to you.” 


DIRECT FROM THE FRONT 


21 


“ Did you not see the Evening Journal ?” 

“ I saw only the morning papers.” 

“And, are you sure?” 

“O yes; the message came direct to our 
office from the colonel himself.” 

“Where is brother? Can I go to him?” 

“ Not now perhaps, but soon. I am going.” 

“You!” 

“Yes: I have leave of absence. Indeed the 
governor has commisioned me to go as a relief 
agent for all Illinois troops.” 

“And may I go with you?” she pleaded. 
“Do say I may!” 

“I will send for you, but must hurry on alone 
first. I could not go, though, without coming 
over to get your message to the captain.” 

“A telegram, Miss Lou,” called the house- 
keeper, who had answered the bell before it was 
rung, for she saw the messenger coming, and 
had the door open when he arrived. 

With eager haste she tore open the envelope, 
and read : 

“ Miss Lou Smith, — Good cheer. The day is ours. 
Wounded, but comfortable. Will save my leg, I guess. 

“ Smith.” 

“Now I know!” she said joyfully. “Send 
for Ernest. Bless his dear soul! He was a 
bright star in my night.” 

Ernest came, and so did his mother. All the 


22 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


neighbors came. They all rejoiced, and well 
they might, for Shepherdstown had sent to the 
war no nobler man than Captain Smith. 

Two weeks from that time he was brought 
home, accompanied by Miss Lou, who had 
braved many dangers, and endured much toil to 
get to him. She had prevailed upon the officers 
in charge to grant him a furlough to come North, 
and had brought him home to nurse him back 
to health and wait on him until the shattered 
bone in his leg should knit again 

Two other officers of the same company came 
a few days afterward. One was wounded as was 
the captain ; the other was wrapped in his coun- 
try’s flag, and was borne to the cemetery and 
laid to rest, free from war’s alarms — his name 
enrolled on the tablet of fame in that quiet but 
patriotic town. 

The weeks slipped by; the months length- 
ened into a year. The captain’s wound healed, 
but he limped visibly and painfully. He put 
aside his soldier’s garb, and was again in 
his office at the store, watching the progress 
of the struggle, and longing to join again in the 
fray. 

Ernest was given a place in the captain’s 
office, but every noon he carried his papers to 
his friends, and cheered them by his bright and 
hopeful manner. 


DIRECT FROM THE FRONT. 23 
4 

Thus it was in the spring of 1864, when the 
President called for soldiers to serve a short 
term of three or four months. 

“ Here ’s my chance !” the captain said to Miss 
Lou, as he read her the President’s call. 

“How so?” she asked' anxiously. “You can 
not walk a mile without help.” 

“Very true; but I can ride. I will raise a 
regiment, and go as colonel.” 

“ But can you?” 

“Wait and see!” he said enthusiastically. 

That very night found him in Springfield, 
and the next day he returned with a commis- 
sion to raise a regiment of troops for the short 
term. 

“Brother,” Miss Lou said, as he was making 
arrangements to go away to join the regiment 
in rendezvous, “could we adopt Ernest as a 
brother?” 

“Perhaps. Some one to take our Oswald’s 
place?” 

“Yes. Ernest is so bright; he is affection- 
ate and deserving. Can you adopt a brother as 
well as people can adopt children as sons or 
daughters?” 

“I do not know,” he said, smiling; “never 
thought of it before.” 

“Will you think about it, and let me know?” 

“Yes; but I can not attend to it now. It 


24 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


takes some time ; it must go through the 
courts.” 

“ Well, as soon as you come back?” 

“Yes; if all goes well.” 

“Dear Oswald!” Miss Lou said, with a sigh. 
“The remembrance of him that night on the 
river will always abide with me.” 

“Yes, yes,” said the colonel (for he was colo- 
nel now), sighing sadly; “that cry we heard in 
the darkness will never cease to ring in my 
ears — ‘Up, papa, up! Mamma, up!’” 

“He would be older than Ernest,” Miss Lou 
said, meditatively. 

“Yes, he would be nearly of age now,” the 
colonel said. 

“Do you think he lives?” she asked softly. 

“ Sometimes I think so. Every bright stranger 
of about that age who comes into the store, and 
looks anything like our folks, gives me a little 
shock. I say, ‘ May be he is Oswald !” 

“Do you? So do I, when 1 see one on the 
street.” 

“That makes me think he lives, or God would 
not put such thoughts into our minds.” 

“Would you begrudge him his third?” 

“Now, sister!” 

“I know you would not, brother; but think 
what a comfortable amount it would be for a 
young man.” 


DIRECT FROM THE FRONT. 


25 


“So it would — several thousand.” 

“Will you think about the other matter? — 
Ernest, I mean.” 

“Yes; but I would rather find Oswald.” 

And thus the matter rested when Colonel 
Smith went to take command of his regiment. 

4 



Chapter* JJJ. 


SOME SOLDIERS TRUE. 

T Mattoon, where the regiment had been 



ordered to assemble for organization, ten 


companies were in camp, each pledged to Colo- 
nel Smith, so that he had nothing to do but to 
assume command. 

In one of these companies were two boys — 
Babbitt Carl and Jakey Jacobus, schoolmates and 
firm friends when at home, and now united in 
heart and purpose, and banded together for 
mutual help and confidences. 

Jakey’s mother was illiterate, and that fact 
worried him. He could not write to her, nor 
receive a letter from her, except by calling in 
the help of a third person. His father was killed 
in the battle of Shiloh, or Pittsburg Handing. 
This shock had almost unseated Mrs. Jacobus’s 
reason. She had many friends among the citi- 
zens, but the most intimate were Mr. and Mrs. 
Carl and the family of Judge Lawrence — espe- 
cially his daughter, Miss Laura; for their sym- 


SOME SOLDIERS TRUE. 


27 


pathies had been enlisted in her behalf when 
the news came that her husband was a sacrifice 
on the altar of patriotism. Now that Jakey was 
gone to be a soldier, they gave her unusual at- 
tention and care. 

At Babbitt’s suggestion a circle was formed, 
consisting of himself and Jakey, his mother and 
Jakey’s mother, the object of which was corre- 
spondence. Their secret was to consist in Mrs. 
Jacobus’s inability to read or write. Out of sym- 
pathy for her, Jakey was not to write either, but 
Babbitt was to do all the correspondence. 

When free from daily drill or routine camp 
duty, Babbitt and Jakey were constantly to- 
gether. 

The soldiers who were guards about the camp 
belonged to the invalid corps. This was an or- 
ganization that consisted of able-bodied men, so 
far as general health was concerned, who had 
served honorably at the front, but were entitled 
to discharge on account of a missing arm, a miss- 
ing leg, or some wound that disabled them from 
performing the full duty of a soldier. 

Babbitt and Jakey were delighted when they 
were admitted to the little frame building that 
served as head-quarters for the guards, to listen 
to the stories of the veterans about their army 
experiences. 

“When I was at Shiloh,” said one, as he com- 


28 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


menced a recital of his experience there, and 
Jakey started, laid his hand on Babbitt’s arm, 
and looked the thought his lips would utter. 

“His father was at Shiloh,” Babbitt said, in- 
terrupting the speaker and nodding toward 
Jakey. 

“He was! What regiment?” 

“The Fourteenth,” said Jakey, a bright spot 
appearing in each cheek as he spoke the words 
his heart cherished so fondly. 

“He was, eh? Knew Colonel Smith then, I 
guess,” the veteran said inquiringly. 

“ No, for it was Colonel Hall’s regiment.” 

“So I know; but Smith was in it. He was 
captain then.” 

“And did you know Colonel Smith then?” 
asked Babbitt, feeling a little bound of his heart 
as he learned that their colonel had been at the 
front, and had seen real service. 

“You bet! Our regiment was brigaded with 
the Fourteenth.” 

Just then the door was darkened by the form 
of a timid-appearing, yet fine-featured youth, 
who hesitated about joining the group inside, as 
they sat around on empty cracker-boxes. Bab- 
bitt and Jakey looked up, and the chief speaker 
said: 

“Come in, boy. You must get some of that 
shyness off, if you are to be a soldier.” 


SOME SOLDIERS TRUE. 


29 


Thus invited, and urged by implied suspicion 
of courage, the youth stepped inside and backed 
up against the side of the room, and stood an 
eager listener to the conversation. 

“Did you see our colonel in that fight?” 
asked Babbitt, anxious to bring the soldier to 
the story he had in mind. 

“Did I? If I hadn’t I wouldn’t have had 
this,” and he picked up his empty coat-sleeve 
and shook it at the boys. 

“Tell us about him.” 

“He did his duty like a man, and for pay 
took home a shattered leg. That is all there is 
to it. What more could you ask?” 

“I reckon you never knew my father?” asked 
Jakey timidly, swallowing hard from embarrass- 
ment as well as from strong emotion. 

“What was his name?” 

“ Jacobus.” 

“Yes, I did. Queer, is n’t it now? but I did, 
for a fact. I ’ll bet there was no other fellow of 
that name in all the regiment. Jacobus — 
Jacobus — Jacobus — yes, that’s it; the very same. 
He wasn’t in Smith’s company; no, he was in 
the one from about Oconee, somewhere. I saw 
him fall. The next volley took this,” shaking 
his sleeve, “and I went to the rear. Did he die?” 

“Yes,” said Jakey, and turned away to hide 
the tears that fell down his face. 


30 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

For a minute there was dead silence, after 
which another veteran spoke : 

“General Grant commanded there.” 

“ Yes, and the very ground we are on now is 
where he took command of his regiment, the old 
Twenty-first.” 

“ Right here !” said Babbitt excitedly. 

“Right on this spot. I have not a bit of 
doubt he has been in this very shanty — was 
his head-quarters, maybe.” 

“ What’s that?” asked another veteran, at 
that moment stepping into the room. 

“We were just saying General Grant took 
hold of the old Twenty-first right here.” 

“ You are right. I was in that regiment my- 
self, and remember seeing him come into camp 
here, wearing a blue blouse and slouch hat, 
smoking a cigar, and looking like a farmer see- 
ing the sights.” 

“Not much of a farmer about him!” put in 
another, enthusiastically. 

“ Now you are talking ! So the fellow 
thought that walked up to him, and slapped him 
on the shoulder, and said; ‘Old man, how are 
you any way ?’ He took him for a sucker. Old 
Grant turned about, and without taking his cigar 
out of his mouth, said to two fellows following 
behind, ‘Guard-house!’ The next instant the 
old Twenty-firster was hustled off to the pen. 


SOME SOLDIERS TRUE. 


31 


Grant walked around, ordered the captains here 
and there, never smiled, never said a word but 
to issue an order, sent a dozen fellows to the 
guard-house, and by night everybody said, 
‘We’ve caught a Tartar.’” 

“You bet!” agreed the others. 

“Up to that time,” the veteran continued, 
“everybody did as he pleased. After that ’most 
everybody did as the colonel pleased.” 

“And you footed to Quincy!” exclaimed one. 

“Every step! Trains running right through, 
and anxious to carry Uncle Sam’s boys ; but the 
old fellow said we could walk, and walk we did.” 

“ Did n’t hurt you?” said the Fourteenth man. 

“Hurt us! Made men of every one of us.” 

“Was he severe on you?” 

“No; gentle as a woman, except when the 
boys tried to run things. At Springfield, where 
we stopped over night on the way to Quincy, a 
lot of the boys sneaked out of camp, and went 
to the city for ‘a time.’ When they came 
back, two or three o’clock in the morning, strag- 
gling in by twos and threes, who was standing 
at the only place they could get in but old Grant 
himself? Says he, gentle and commonplace- 
like: ‘What’s your name?’ Then each fellow up 
and told him, for they all knowed him in the 
moonlight. Well, he just says to every feller: 
‘Turn in now, for it ’s past time.’ They ’lowed 


32 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


fhey were cornin’ off mighty easy. But the next 
day, instead of moving on we staid right there, 
and had dress parade. And bless my stars if the 
adjutant didn’t read every name off, and the 
fellows stepped out in front, and the next thing 
they knowed every one of them was hanging by 
his thumbs to a limb of a tree. We went on, 
but after that there was no sneaking out at night 
while he staid with us.” 

“He didn’t stay long.” 

“No; too much in him to stay with us.” 

“ I wonder if Colonel Smith knew father,” 
ventured Jakey. 

“May be,” assented the man from the Four- 
teenth. 

“Did your father go, too?” said a soldier ad- 
dressing the awkward youth who stood backed 
up against the side of the house. 

“He would have gone if he had had a 
chance.” 

“So you are going for him.” 

“No ; I am going for myself. I have nobody 
else to go for.” 

As he said this, Babbitt and Jakey passed 
out; for it was nearly time to “mount guard,” 
and they wanted to witness that ceremony. 

“No father, eh?” queried the old soldier. 

“No, I guess not — never saw him.” 

“Whose company are you in?” 


SOME SOLDIERS TRUE. 


33 


“Captain Mooney’s.” 

“Same as those two boys just gone out?” 

“ Yes ; but they do not know me — not much.” 

“What might your name be?” 

“Thee — Theodore Tompkins.” 

“Well, Thee,” said the soldier, rising and ex- 
tending his hand, “success to you! Those are 
peart boys, and that Babbitt’s a hummer. Get 
in with him, and you will be all right. Jakey’s 
pap was in the same regiment as the colonel, 
and like as not the colonel will have a warm 
spot for him. Soldiers are queer that way.” 



Chapter JV. 


PROMOTION. 


OLONEL SMITH and his sister, Miss Lou, 



went to the camp at Mattoon before the 
regiment was organized, and visited among the 
officers, and studied the men and boys as they 
leisurely passed through the grounds in the cool 
of the evening; and in this way knew some of 
them by sight, though they did not know their 
names. 

Walking slowly toward the outer guard-line, 
they met Theodore, who was himself walking 
slowly toward barracks from the guard head- 
quarters. His manner first, and his face after- 
ward, attracted their attention, and they gazed at 
him until he looked up and caught their eye, 
when they turned their heads — but not until his 
features had been photographed on their minds, 
and their hearts touched by something pathetic 
in his expression, and their souls aroused by a 
bearing that seemed more noble than his garb 
would lead them to expect. 


34 


PROMOTION. 


35 


“ Do you know him, brother?” she asked. 

“No; but,” and he laughed gently, “his is 
another of those faces that make me think of 
Oswald.” 

“And yet, brother, we have been deceived so 
often that we surely are not again going to jump 
at straws.” 

“So we have agreed, you know.” 

“And yet both of us are breaking our agree- 
ment every chance we find to do so!” 

“That is so. Well, suppose we quit, and 
give our attention to somebody we know is no 
relative of ours, and can by no possibility be 
Oswald !” 

“Just so — Ernest, for instance.” 

“Yes, Ernest; or, for that matter, a boy in 
Captain Mooney’s company. His father was in 
the Fourteenth, and was killed at Shiloh, the 
captain tells me ; his mother is bereft of reason 
almost, and the boy is deserving.” 

“Have you seen him?” 

“ Yes, the captain pointed him out to me yes- 
terday.” 

“And how were you impressed?” 

“Well enough; but there was a young fellow 
with him that took my eye completely.” 

“Not another Oswald?” and she laughed re- 
provingly. 

“No, not another Oswald, for Captain Mooney 


36 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

has known him since he was a babe, and knew 
his parents before that.” 

“ What has that to do with your Shiloh boy?” 

‘‘Well, just this: They are bosom friends, 
and when I suggested to the captain to name 
the Shiloh boy for corporal, he shook his head 
doubtfully, and said he already had the other 
one down for that. So you see if ‘ Shiloh ’ can 
not get it, his next friend will, and that will be 
something.” 

“ Folks do not usually look upon their friends’ 
promotion as an honor to themselves, do they, 
when candidates for the same place ?” 

“Not exactly; but I think ‘Shiloh’ will.” 

“Are you going to call him ‘Shiloh’ all the 
time? That’s a nickname.” 

“So it is. Well, here is his real name. The 
captain gave it to me on this card — and the 
other boy’s, too.” 

He drew out of his pocket a card on which 
were written the names, “Jakey Jacobus (Shi- 
loh), Babbitt Carl (Shiloh’s friend),” and handed 
it to his sister. 

“So the captain speaks of him as ‘Shiloh,’ 
and the other as ‘Shiloh’s friend,”’ she said, as 
she saw the manner in which each was distin- 
guished. 

“Not exactly. I wrote that myself. Do n’t 
you see it is my writing?” 


PROMOTION. 37 

“Will you find out the other young man’s 
name?” she asked. 

“Which?” 

“The one we just passed.” 

“Now, sister! Where is our agreement no*- 
to chase shadows and jump at straws?” 

“But it will do no harm to know who he is.” 

“I will see about it, he added meditatively; 
and saluting the guard, the colonel and his sister 
passed out and walked silently to their hotel up- 
town, and their thoughts were exactly the same, 
though they did not disclose them to each other. 

As for Theodore, he went back to the barracks, 
disturbed in mind by what he had heard at a 
second visit to the guard head-quarters; for the 
veterans had been telling of the daring of some 
soldiers, and the rapid promotions earned by 
deeds of valor. He was full of a burning desire 
to do something heroic. He wanted to prove to 
all that he was not of mean parentage ; and if 
he should succeed in that, by doing some worthy 
act, and did not die in the doing, he wanted to 
be promoted. He resolved to let not one oppor- 
tunity pass to distinguish himself. The story 
of the veteran had fired his heart. 

“Now there is ‘Little Phil’ Sheridan,” the 
veteran had said; “he started out as captain of 
cavalry. Great guns! He made his company 
equal to a regiment every time. He rushed, he 


38 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


cut right and left, he wheeled and charged 
again, and swept the field as a whirlwind! 
What came of it? Why, this: Somebody told 
the governor of Michigan that that captain was 
too big for his boots — to say nothing of his 
shoulder-straps. What did old Governor Blair 
do? He just wrote out a commission as colonel 
of cavalry, and sent a man straight down to the 
Tennessee River, to give ‘Tittle Phil’ his first 
lift. Now see where he is! The biggest man 
in the Shenandoah, and no telling where he 
will end.” 

“ That ’s pretty well told,” said another, as 
Theodore had stood there drinking in every 
word; “but I can match it. At the battle of 
Chickamauga an Illinois regiment had every of- 
ficer killed or wounded. Now, that’s pretty big; 
but I have the papers what’ll prove it. Well, 
when the colonel, the lieutenant-colonel, the 
major, every captain, every lieutenant, first and 
second, were killed, or wounded, or captured, 
blame my stars, if the orderly sergeant of one of 
the companies did n’t get on the colonel’s horse 
and take the battalion through as pretty as you 
ever seed. Where is he to-day?” 

“Colonel of the regiment,” suggested one. 

“No : on a major-general’s staff — forget which 
one — drawing his little five dollars a day, and 
riding a prancing steed. That I saw myself.” 


PROMOTION , ; 


39 


“Well, you needn’t go so far from home. 
Now, here is Colonel Smith himself. Just yes- 
terday, so to speak, he was an infantry captain, 
to-day a colonel.” 

“And he deserves it,” said one. 

“That’s the square thing,” said the Four- 
teenth man. “ I saw him, myself, gobble up a 
whole regiment of rebels at Shiloh, with his one 
company, before he got it in the leg.” 

“ Hold on, Hank. That ’s a little strong. Not 
a whole regiment!” 

“You may have my head for a foot-ball if it 
was n’t.” 

“A thousand men!” said one dersively. 

“A thousand nothing!” replied the Four- 
teenth man, scornfully. “The old Fourteenth 
had been peppering it to ’em for four hours, 
and there were n’t more ’n a dozen left; but he 
took ’em in, just the same, and it counts a reg- 
iment in the report.” 

“ Well whether he captured that regiment or 
not,” suggested a veteran, “ he has captured 
this regiment.” 

“Correct! Bag and baggage.” 

“Hearts and heads!” chimed in another ad- 
mirer. 

“Boots and breeches!” said Hank. 

“ And there he comes now, with his sister,” 
remarked one. 


40 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


At this Theodore withdrew, and walked in the 
direction of the colonel, intending, when near, if 
unobserved, to take a good look at the man who 
had been so brave in battle, and so true at home, 
as to have only friends among soldiers and 
among his neighbors. But when he looked up, 
the colonel and his sister were gazing at him, 
and he reckoned it was because he was so meanly 
clad. He went to his quarters, determined to 
achieve a name that even the colonel would re- 
spect. He did not wait long for an opportunity. 

The next day after the election of company 
officers, Captain Mooney announced the names 
of the non-commissioned officers of his com- 
pany, and among the corporals he read the 
name of Babbitt Carl, much to that young man’s 
surprise. 

Then Theodore recalled what the old soldier 
had told him about Babbitt, and as he saw him 
receive this first promotion, he believed the vet- 
eran was right when he described him, in 
language more expressive than elegant, as “a 
hummer.” 




/ 

-5 

■5 

■liiliiliilill!ililliiini::iiiliil iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiaiiiniitiiiii iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitiiiiiii|ifiiiiii|it|i:i!i|iiiiiiiiiiiifiiiii,i|iii,iii!|ii||i l 

r 

f 


7\ 

[■ ,/ T s * «'j'« «'']'■» •^p* ✓p ✓p. ✓p. ✓p. ✓p. ✓p. *p. ^p. ✓p. j> 

k 


Chapter V. 

A WIDENING CIRCLE. 

7\ MONG those who most heartily congratu- 
lated Babbitt on his selection as cor- 
poral, none was more sincere in expressions of 
gladness than Jakey. Others, perhaps, were 
more demonstrative, and expressed themselves 
in better lauguage ; but for Babbitt the warm 
pressure of Jakey ’s hand, and the silent but 
eloquent language of his eyes, attested more 
than the words of the many. 

That night, when they were alone in their 
bunks, and all the others were asleep, they 
talked together of what had happened, and of 
what the future perhaps would bring to them, 
as only kindred spirits can talk. 

There was a very wide difference between 
the home-life of Babbitt and the home-life of 
Jakey; and yet, since they had entered into 
their compact, there seemed to be no difference 
between the hearts of the boys. So the hours 
4 4i 


42 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


of the night wore on, and they still were not 
asleep, but talking in tones that would not 
disturb their comrades, and planning for the 
future. 

The future for them had only good. They 
could not foresee any of the dangers or trials 
which older heads would have dreaded ; they 
did not reckon upon the possibilities of even 
the short time they had engaged to serve the 
Government as soldiers. The one thing that 
they thought most about, and talked most of, 
was their return home when the term of service 
had been completed. 

Finally, Jakey said^hesitatingly, as if he were 
not sure that what he was about to say would 
meet with Babbitt’s approval : “ I think, maybe, 
we might take in some other of the boys in our 
circle.” 

Babbitt did not reply at once, for it had been 
a strong desire in his mind that there should be 
only the four — himself, Jakey, Jakey ’s mother, 
and Babbitt’s mother; but after thinking for a 
moment or two, and recalling that it would add 
to Jakey’s pleasure, if not his own, to accede to 
his request, he said warmly, as though heartily 
approving of the project : 

“Why, certainly; but who is there that you 
know that would like to become one of our 
circle ?” 


A WIDENING CIRCLE . 43 

Jakey’s reply was rather unsatisfactory, for 
he said : 

“ Indeed, I do n’t know his name ; but I do 
know that he has no friends ; he told me so. 
He said if he ever had a father and mother he 
does n’t know it; that he had run away from the 
man he was living with, and came to our town 
just as the company was being formed, and put 
his name down just because he didn’t know 
what else to do, and was just as willing to go 
as to stay ; and that he did n’t care whether he 
ever came back or not, for he had nothing to 
come back to. Then I thought maybe if we 
would take him into our circle, that he would 
feel happier, and that he would be glad with us 
when the time came to come back.” 

Babbitt’s heart was touched with this brief 
recital of the past life of the unknown comrade, 
so he said again : 

“Certainly, certainly; if we can take him 
into our circle, and make his life any more 
happy, we will do it; for we don’t expect always 
to be soldiers. The war will end by and by ; 
and it may be, when we are grown to be men, 
after the war, we shall be glad that we are 
kind to this boy now. But do you know his 
name?” 

“No,” Jakey said, “I don’t know his real 
name. He calls himself ‘ Theodore ;’ the boys 


44 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


call him ‘ Thee ’ for short — those that know 
him.” 

“ But where did he come from ? Who is he?” 

“I do n’t know who he is, nor where he 
came from ; only that he seems to want to do 
right, and seems very sad and lonely.” 

Babbitt did n’t know what more could be said 
or done then ; so, turning over, as if he would 
go to sleep, he said, under his blanket, in a 
low tone : 

“All right, Jakey; in the morning we will 
see about this.” 

Jakey and Babbitt were soon fast asleep and 
dreaming — not of their present surroundings, 
but of their homes and of the future, and of 
the work that they expected to do then, and of 
the men they expected to be. 

They were genuinely surprised the next day, 
after having talked with this unknown comrade, 
who was unknown to them now no more — for 
they had taken him into their circle, and had 
learned that his name, or the name that he went 
by, was Theodore Tompkins — by receiving a 
letter from Laura Lawrence, in which she said 
that Mrs. Carl had told her of the plan the boys 
had made to form a circle for correspondence 
and mutual help. 

Babbitt was just a little bit nettled at first; 
for he had promised Jakey that his mother 


A WIDENING CIRCLE. 


45 


would never divulge their secret, and he could 
not understand how it was that she had violated 
the confidence that he had in her. He put 
down her letter, as he was reading it, and before 
he had finished it, and said to himself : 

“It can not be; I never knew mother to do 
such a thing as that before.” 

Jakey was standing by and overheard the 
remark, and, naturally enough, asked what he 
meant. 

Babbitt was, for a moment, confused by this 
question from Jakey, for he had already made 
up his mind that he would not tell him that his 
mother had divulged the secret ; but, recovering 
himself, he said: 

“Why, I may just as well be frank with you, 
Jakey; mother has let our secret out, and here 
is a letter from Miss Laura, which says she 
knows all about it.” 

It was now Jakey’s turn to be surprised, and 
he was somewhat abashed ; for he did n’t desire 
it to be generally known that his mother could 
not read or write. The boys looked at each 
other in silence for a moment, one blushing be- 
cause his mother had, as he supposed, violated 
the confidence reposed in her, and the other 
blushing because his mother had so little knowl- 
edge as not to be able to read or write. 

Babbitt picked up the letter and continued 


46 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


to read. He had gone but a few lines when he 
smiled broadly, and said : 

“0, I see how it is. It could not be helped 
after all. Let me read you what Miss Laura 
says.” Then he read these words : 

“ I know you boys will be surprised when I 
tell you that Mrs. Carl told me of your secret; 
and perhaps you will think she ought not to have 
done so ; but you will see how it happened when 
I tell you that I called at her house, and she was 
just reading aloud a letter that you had written 
her, and when I came in she said: ‘O, I need 
not mind you, Miss Laura. I was just reading 
a letter from Babbitt to his father, and perhaps 
I had just as well read on so, without know- 
ing what she was coming to, she read on, and 
read what you had said about the little circle 
you desired to form, and about what the secret 
of it should be.” 

After reading so far, Babbitt said : 

“ Well, that excuses mother. But see how 
she has let our secret be known to others than 
Miss Laura; for did n’t she say here that father 
was listening too?” 

By this time Jakey had recovered his 
thoughts, and he had also no condemnation for 
Babbitt’s mother for the unintentional divulg- 
ing of their little secret, for he said : 

“ But see, Babbitt, we have done just what 


A WIDENING CIRCLE. 


47 


we have been blaming them, for doing. We 
have told Theodore, and taken him in ; so we 
can ’t object because they have told somebody. 
But is that all Miss Laura has said about it?” 

“ Well, I will see,” said Babbitt, taking up 
the letter again, and glancing hurriedly down 
the written page. “No, that is not all. See 
here: she says she wants to join our circle. 
What do you say to that, Jakey?” 

“Well, I am willing; ain’t you?” he replied. 

“Well, I should say!” said Babbitt. “But 
who would have thought that a little society we 
formed among ourselves would grow like this ? 
There must be something good in it. Perhaps 
it may grow more than we think, and become 
something of importance afterward,” — scarcely 
knowing himself what he meant by the “some- 
thing” that this organization should become in 
the future. 

“ Well,” he said, “ I suppose, before we take 
father and mother and Miss Laura in, we must 
tell Theodore of it, for he is one of us now.” 

“Certainly,” said Jakey, “Theodore must 
know; for though we have a secret among 
ourselves, we must have no secret from each 
other.” 

So Theodore was called up, and the matter 
was laid before him, and he said : 

“ Boys, it is not for me to say. I can ’t ob- 


48 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


ject to any of your folks coming into the circle, 
and I would not if I could. You have taken 
me in without knowing who I am, and I am 
sure I can trust you to take in your own folks 
and friends.” 

“Very well,” Babbitt said; “then let us 
understand that our circle now consists of us 
three boys, our fathers and mothers, and Miss 
Laura.” 

“Perhaps not quite that,” said Theodore; 
“ your fathers and mothers, but not mine.” 
And he betrayed more feeling than the boys 
had expected to see him show under the circum- 
stances. Babbitt replied quickly: 

“Yes, yours too. May be they are living 
somewhere ; and if they only knew of this little 
society, wouldn’t they be glad to join?” 

Theodore shook his head doubtfully. “It 
may be that they are living ; I oftentimes think 
that they must be. I never knew anything of 
them.” 

Jakey looked up in surprise, as if a new idea 
had dawned in his mind. 

“You don’t suppose that you were gypsied, 
do you?” 

“Gypsied? O, I can’t tell. I have often 
thought perhaps I was.” 

“ But can ’t you remember anything about 
where you came from?” 


A WIDENING CIRCLE. 


49 


“No; I remember nothing except that I 
always lived with Farmer Jenkins, and they al- 
ways told me that I was not their boy. Where 
I came from I can ’t tell. Whether my father 
and mother are living I do n’t know. What my 
name is I don’t know.” 

“Well, how did it happen that you were 
called Theodore Tompkins, when you always 
lived with Mr. Jenkins?” 

“They found the name in a book, they said, 
and thought it was a good name; and they 
didn’t want to call me by their own name, so 
they always called me that.” 

“Well, that is a queer idea, I must say. 
Who is this Farmer Jenkins? Does he live 
near our place?” 

“No, not very near; about twenty-five miles 
from there. I got tired of staying with him, so 
one day, after he had abused me, I ran away 
and came to your place, just in time to join the 
company. Do n’t you remember, I told you 
before ?” 

“ Yes,” said Babbitt, “ I remember now. 
How old are you, Theodore?” 

“ , do n’t know ; I suppose I am about sev- 
enteen years old. How can I tell?” 

“Well, how many years back can you re- 
member?” asked Jakey?” 

“Well, I can remember about — about four- 
5 


50 


THE CO LONE VS CHARGE. 


teen years,” said Theodore, after thinking a 
minute or two. “ That is the way it seems to 
me. I can remember them talking about things 
when I was a little boy that I have learned by 
reading happened about that long ago. So I 
suppose I am about seventeen. I could hardly 
remember things before I was three years of 
age, could I?” 

“Well, never mind about that,” said Bab- 
bitt ; “we are going to suppose that your father 
and mother are living ; and, if they are, we are 
going to have them members of our society.” 

“ By the way,” said Babbitt, as if he were 
utterly surprised and astonished at his own 
thought, at the same time giving Jakey a vigor- 
ous slap on the shoulder. 

“Well, what is new now?” said Jakey. 
“ What has struck you ?” 

“Why, just to think that we have such a 
big job on hand for our society when we get 
home !” 

“I don’t understand you,” said Jakey. 
“What kind of a job — something that we 
haven’t talked about?” 

“Of course something that we haven’t talked 
about. You see Theodore here, don’t you?” 

“Yes. What of that?” 

“Well, he has a father and a mother some- 
where, has n’t he?” 


A WIDENING CIRCLE. 51 

“May be so; but what of that?” 

“Well, now, you must be slow! I thought 
you would see before I had a chance to tell you.” 

“See what?” 

“ See the work that this society of ours can 
do when we get home.” 

Theodore had listened, and had intuitively 
divined the meaning of Babbitt. Jakey was 
slower to see the drift of his remarks, so that 
Babbitt was obliged to explain. 

“ Well, Theodore’s father and mother are 
living, I am sure, though I do n’t know. He 
belongs to our society. We are now members, 
we three, and the work that we must do — do n’t 
you see? — will be, all hands of us, to help him 
find his father and mother.” 

“ Tip-top !” said Jakey ; “first-rate! That is 
what we will do. My ! I wish the war was over 
now, so that we could go home!” 

Theodore was surprised and delighted, and 
for a moment he felt happier than he had ever 
known himself to be ; for he had not only found 
friends in Jakey and Babbitt, but he had found 
sincerest sympathizers and willing helpers to do 
what he had always longed to do — search for 
his parents, feeling certain they must have been 
searching for him. 

“ That will be something for us to write 
about right away,” said Babbitt. 


52 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


“Certain,” said Jakey. 

“And that,” continued Babbitt, “will be 
something that Miss Laura will delight in. 
Is n’t it a good thing that she did find out about 
this society, and has asked to become a member 
of our circle?” 

“ It looks that way now,” said Jakey. 

“Who would have thought,” urged Babbitt, 
“ when we were talking together about writing 
letters home, and about forming a little circle 
of our own, that any such great work as this 
would have come to us to do?” 

“And who would have thought,” said The- 
odore, “when I came to your place and joined 
a company, desiring, most of all, that I might, 
some day, get into a batttle and be killed, that 
I should so soon change my mind and long to 
live a little while longer?” 

“Well, that only proves,” said Babbitt, 
“that we do n’t know, from one day to another, 
what is going to happen, or, as the Bible says, 
what a day may bring forth.” 

Theodore looked at Babbitt for a moment, 
and then asked, hesitatingly: “Do you believe 
the Bible?” 

“ Why, certainly,” said Babbitt. “ Why 
should n’t I ? Every word of it ; it is all true.” 

“ Well, I do n’t,” said Theodore, turning 
about. 


A WIDENING CIRCLE. 


53 


The boys were greatly shocked, especially 
Babbitt, at this declaration on the part of The- 
odore that he did n’t believe in God’s Word. 
Theodore walked away, and left Jakey and 
Babbitt standing alone, quite dazed and quite 
crest-fallen at this sudden turn in affairs. 

Fortunately, Babbitt and Jakey promised to 
watch the fire under the boiling beans that night; 
for the old cook said they should be extra fine 
if baked all night and watched to keep them 
from burning, — and they intended to have a 
quiet talk while at work. 



Chapter* VJ. 

THE NIGHT-WATCH. 

P ROMPTLY at eight o’clock the boys re- 
ported, as they had promised, for duty as 
watchers beside the fire. It added much to their 
satisfaction to know that the rest of the company 
had sought their bunks early that night; for 
they had feared that their quietness w r ould be 
disturbed by some of their comrades insisting 
on sharing their labors with them. 

Night had brought a decided change in the 
temperature, as was often the case at that time 
of the year in that locality. The day had been 
intensely warm ; but with the going down of the 
sun, a brisk northwest wind sprang up, and 
sweeping across the broad expanse of prairie, 
yet cold from the frosts of the past winter, made 
heavy garments a necessity for comfort. 

Babbitt and Jakey further provided against 
any uncomfortableness by stretching a blanket 
across one corner of the rudely - constructed 
frame that was to receive the covering of tree- 
54 


THE NIGHT-WATCH. 


55 


boughs. In this way they were sheltered from 
the wind, and made comfortable by the bright fire 
that burned in the pit just before them. 

Before taking his leave, the cook gave minute 
instructions as to how his precious pot of beans 
Avas to be attended to. The pot was not an 
ordinary one for size, but such a one as only 
soldiers were accustomed to see swung from the 
fire, and of such ample dimensions as to hold a 
bushel or more of beans, besides the necessary 
water in which to boil them. No less a vessel 
would have been sufficient to provide the mess 
for the company of seventy-five men, and the 
cook very wisely counted on sharpened appetites 
for the morrow’s dinner after they had inhaled 
the delicious odor of the well-done food, seas- 
oned as he had in mind to season it. 

It may not be uninteresting to know some 
of the task before the boys for the night. These 
are the instructions the cook gave them : 

“Now, boys, the first thing will be to roll up 
one of them pork-barrels ’longside this pit ; and 
the next thing, you had better fill it half to the 
top with water from the well down there.” 

“That is easily done,” said Babbitt. 

Going over to the Commissary Department, 
where a dozen or more empty pork-barrels were 
piled up against the building, he and Jakey pro- 
cured one of them, and rolled it across the inter- 


56 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

vening space to the side of the pit. Gathering 
up some of the smaller camp-kettles, they started 
for the well, to get the water as directed. When 
they returned, and had emptied the contents of 
their kettles into the barrel, Jakey’s curiosity to 
know what could be the use of such proceed- 
ings, made him ask : 

“What is the need of all this water, cook? ,) 

“For the beans, to be sure,” he said. “Don’t 
suppose you can bile a bushel or two of beans 
without water?” 

It was Babbitt’s turn to be surprised, if not 
horrified ; for the barrel was anything but clean. 
In all the crevices there were quantities of salt, 
and clinging to the sides were particles of fat 
meat, while on the bottom were several smaller 
pieces that had been thought too insignificant to 
take out and issue to the men as rations. He 
was about to overturn the barrel and pour the 
water to the ground, saying, as he grasped it for 
that purpose: 

“ Well, we must clean the barrel first ; we 
can ’t use this dirty barrel.” 

When the cook exclaimed indignantly : 

“Dirty! What do you call dirt? Is salt 
pork dirt? Is salt dirt? Hain’t you been eatin’ 
the meat that came out of that barrel? Will 
the water be any dirtier? Besides, the salt and 
what meat is there will help season the beans. 


THE NIGHT-WATCH. 57 

Lots more of that kind of stuff to be put into 
the pot yet!” 

Babbitt saw that remonstrance would be use- 
less, so there remained only the one thing to do, 
and that was to follow the directions of the 
cook, and continue to bring the water until the 
required amount was at hand. 

When this task was done, although his ap- 
petite for the beans was considerably marred by 
what he regarded a very careless way of prepa- 
ration for their cooking, he determined to stand 
by his post and do his duty, as he had promised 
to do, and depend for the hunger of the next 
day to make palatable what now seemed to him 
perfectly nauseating. 

“ We will just swing another kettle on to the 
fire here,” said the cook. “ I will hold the pole 
up; you boys swing the kettle down. That is 
right. Now fill this pot with water out of the 
barrel, and build a rousing fire under it here, and 
get it hot, and keep it bilin’. Now, mind you, 
the fire must be kept burning under this kettle 
of water, and as fast as the coals are made, you 
rake them over under t’ other kettle, where the 
beans are ; and see that they are jist kept sim- 
merin’ — not bilin’, but jist simmerin’, like they 
are now. Then you must jist keep dipping out 
of the kettle of bilin’ water and pouring it onto 
them — jist so they don’t burn. Now, that is 


58 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


all you have got to do ; but that is enough, I 
allow, to keep you pretty busy — keepin’ up this 
fire, and keepin’ this kettle bilin’, and keepin’ 
them beans a-simmerin’, and keepin’t he coals 
raked over, — that will be enough to keep you 
awake, I reckon. Now, jist keep your wits 
about you; and if you a’tend to this half right, 
you will think to-morrow’s dinner — why, a king 
never had a fitter meal.” 

With a parting look into the pot of simmer- 
ing beans, and a parting stir of the fire under 
the pot of water, the old cook bade the boys 
good-night, and went to his quarters, intending 
to relieve them, as he had said, “when the cock 
should crow for the mornin’.” 

There was something so unusual about this 
work that Babbitt was secretly glad that he had 
undertaken the task for the novelty of the thing, 
not to speak of the opportunity it would give 
him of talking confidentially with Jakey for sev- 
eral hours — not to say the whole night, if the 
cook should so forget himself as not to come to 
them until the morning should dawn, indeed. 
They had just seated themselves on upturned 
camp-kettles for stools, when Jakey said: 

“ It seems to me, Bab, it is n’t just right for 
us two to be out here having this fun — for ’t is 
fun, you bet! — and the other one of us know 
nothing about it.” 


THE NIGHT-WATCH. 


59 

“The other one of us? T ’ asked Babbitt. 
“What other one?” 

“ Why, Thee, of course. Ain’t he one 
of us?” 

Babbitt wondered if Jakey had, through the 
day, felt as he had felt in reference to the unde- 
sirableness, in some respects, of having Theo- 
dore become one of their little circle. He was 
sure that up to that time it had been composed 
of congenial spirits; but how would it be if he 
should be admitted, and become a confidant 
with the rest? But he thought he would let 
Jakey have his way this time, and see what 
would come of it; so, without appearing sur- 
prised at all, he said: 

“ It doesn’t look exactly right, Jakey; but I 
am afraid if we go in to call him, some of the 
other boys would wake up and follow us out; 
then what would we do?” 

“You trust me for that,” said Jakey; “I can 
get him.” 

“Very well; go on, then.” 

Jakey needed no second invitation to do 
what was in his heart to do; so, with light step, 
he crept into the barracks, and, without any 
difficulty, found the bunk where Theodore lay 
asleep, as he supposed. A gentle push of his 
feet, as they stretched out over the edge of the 
bunk, a gentle shake, and a low call quickly 


6o 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE . 


aroused Theodore; for he was not asleep, as 
Jakey supposed he would be. 

In obedience to Jakey’s softly-spoken “ Come,” 
he crept out of his bunk; and, when once upon 
the floor, hastily dressed himself and followed 
Jakey, whose form he could dimly see by the 
starlight that came through the open door. He 
did n’t know what was in store for him, nor 
whither Jakey would lead him ; nor did he care. 
His life had been such as had made little dif- 
ference to him who led him or where he went. 
It had been entirely aimless. And yet there 
had been awakened in his breast new emotions 
by the kindliness shown him by Babbitt and 
Jakey, and especially was he touched by their 
proposal to take him into their little secret 
circle. 

Outside of the barracks, and in the light of 
the fire which glowed in the pit, he quickly dis- 
covered what was wanted of him, as he saw 
Babbitt standing near the boiling kettles, ap- 
parently waiting for him. As soon as they were 
beyond the hearing of the comrades in their 
bunks, Jakey said, by way of introduction, and 
because he had nothing better to say: 

“We thought maybe you would like to be 
with us out here awhile to-night.” 

Theodore quickly replied : “ Indeed I would. 
It seems to me I would not care to be with any 


THE NIGHT-WATCH. 


6l 


others but you and Babbitt, — I suppose I must 
say ‘corporal’ now.” 

“ Not by any means,” said Babbitt, as they 
drew near to him. “ I should be sorry if you 
should speak of me in that way.” 

“But what are you doing here anyway?” 
asked Theodore, in surprise. 

Then the boys explained to him how it hap- 
pened that they were there as watchers beside 
the fire ; and Jakey further explained, as he had 
already done : 

“We just thought that may be you would 
like to sit with us awhile. You need not stay 
until we go in unless you want to ; but we can 
talk over matters out here better than we can 
anywhere else.” 

Theodore said : “ I was wondering where 
you had gone, and wished awfully you had 
asked me to go when Jakey called me;” and, 
while speaking, manifested an emotion that was 
surprising to the boys ; for they did not know 
that his heart was really affected by their kind- 
nesses. Indeed, they had expected him to be 
somewhat cold and unapproachable, and Bab- 
bitt had pictured to himself a very difficult task 
in getting his confidence. They did not at once 
speak to him upon the matter which was near- 
est to their hearts, but talked of everything else, 
questioning Theodore as to what he knew or 


62 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


guessed as to his past life ; and repaid him by 
detailing, as far as they found it interesting, the 
incidents of their former years, and spoke of 
the pleasures of their homes, and of their school- 
day associations, and of the providential up- 
building of their secret society. This opened 
the way for Babbitt to say: 

“We believe in a Providence, you see, The- 
odore, and it is hard for us to understand why 
you do not.” 

“ My life,” he said, “ has not been as yours. 
If there has been any Providence, as you call it, 
in my life, I do not see it. Why should I have 
a father, and never know him? Why should I 
have a mother, and never see her face or hear 
her voice? May' be I have brothers and sisters 
somewhere, but who knows?” 

Babbitt could not resist the impulse to say: 
“God knows.” 

Theodore smiled contemptuously. “Perhaps 
he does,” he said ; “ but if he does, who would 
care for a God like that?” 

“You would not speak so,” said Babbitt, “if 
you knew as we know.” 

“ Do I not know what you know? and yet I 
feel just so,” said Theodore. 

Babbitt was undecided how to reply to this. 
He felt that Theodore had, from his stand-point, 
good grounds for feeling as he said he felt ; and 


THE NIGHT- WA TCH. 


63 

he wondered whether, had he been placed in 
Theodore’s place, he would not have had sim- 
ilar feelings. Quickly the resentment that he 
had felt earlier in the day toward this new- 
found friend, because of his avowed unbelief in 
God and his providence, melted away, and in 
its place he felt the glow of sincere pity. 
Finally, he said : 

“You do not blame God for what has hap- 
pened to you, do you?” 

“No,” Theodore said, “I do not blame him. 
Why should I blame something or some person 
that does not exist?” 

“What!” said Babbitt, in surprise. “Do you 
doubt that there is a God?” 

“ I do. Why should n’t I ?” 

Babbitt knew he was on dangerous ground. 
He did not wish to err here, and arouse in the 
mind of Theodore any new fears or doubts, and 
yet he felt there must be some way by which he 
could help his friend to the faith he himself 
felt ; so, without knowing whither the step 
would lead, he said : 

“ Suppose, Theodore, Jakey and I believe as 
you believe ; suppose, instead of your being the 
one of the three that does not believe in God, 
and in the Bible, and in Providence, as we, that 
we let go our belief, and say, as you do, ‘We 
do not know; we do not believe.’ ” 


64 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

Theodore quickly replied: “0, do not do 
that! do not do that!” 

“Well, why should we not?” said Babbitt. 
“ If you were right, would n’t you want us to be 
with you in the right? And if you are happy 
in your unbelief, would you not want us to be 
with you and be as happy as you are? Re- 
member, we are one now ; we have agreed to 
be one. You can not come with us, so we 
will go with you.” 

“Do not do that,” said Theodore, earnestly; 
“do not do that.” 

“Well, why?” persisted Babbitt. “We will, 
won’t we, Jakey?” 

Jakey did not know what the outcome would 
be ; but he trusted Babbitt as his leader, and 
was willing to follow whither he should go ; so, 
unhesitatingly, he said: 

“ Certainly.” 

There remained only one thing for Theo- 
dore to say, and that he was manly enough to 
declare at once : 

“ I am not happy. I wish I could think as 
you do. It surely would be better for me ; I 
would be happier. I do n’t want you to come 
with me ; I would rather go with you. It is 
dark and gloomy where I am.” 

Babbitt’s heart gave one great bound as 
these words came from Theodore’s lips. They 


THE NIGHT-WATCH. 


65 


were unexpected, and the end he sought seemed 
nearer than he dared to believe. He had hoped 
only that some time or other Theodore might be 
brought to see that faith was better than no 
faith ; that the God of the Bible was better 
than no God ; and that somehow, when he 
should see this better way, he might lead 
him as far as he himself had gone. Here The- 
odore was declaring openly that he was not in 
a safe way. Another thing that surprised Bab- 
bitt was the increase of his own faith, as he 
found another willing to become a believer with 
him if he could but find the path in which to 
walk to that end. He said, almost exultantly, 
after a moment’s thought : 

“Well, Theodore, you do not want us to go 
to you. You say you can not come to us. Let 
us, at least, find some common ground on which 
we can stand. Or, perhaps,” he said, after think- 
ing again a moment, “ we had better let this 
matter drop. I am sure you do not care to dis- 
pute our position with us, and we will not dis- 
pute yours now ; but after awhile, when we are 
better acquainted with each other, we can talk 
of this matter again.” 

Theodore readily consented to this proposi- 
tion, and said, feelingly : 

“ I can not understand why you two should 

care for me, or should have invited me to be- 
6 


66 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


come a friend of yours — you might say a brother. 
I do not understand why you should do this ; 
and yet I must say that I have not known 
in all my life any happiness until to-day, when 
I find that there is some one that cares for 
me, and sympathizes with me, and wants to 
help me.” 

Stalwart young man as he was, almost touch- 
ing the borders of manhood, Babbitt and Jakey 
could see, by the gleams of the flickering fire- 
light, that Theodore was convulsed with strong 
emotion ; that hope and love struggled for the 
mastery over fear. 

It was a new experience to Babbitt, this 
thing of being a soul-helper ; for that is what he 
thought himself at that time. He was sur- 
prised, also, at the frankness with which Theo- 
dore told of his unbelief, and by the depth of 
the feeling he had manifested. He was at- 
tracted, moreover, by the fine form and fea- 
tures of his new friend, and could not put 
aside an impression that here was a jewel, 
encased in the ruggedness of Theodore’s man- 
ner — such a jewel as would repay effort to 
bring to light. 

He said to himself that one with such a 
mind, which had attained so great a develop- 
ment under such unfavorable surroundings, 
must be of a superior order. But whether The- 


THE NIGHT-WATCH. 


67 

odore was of superior parentage or not ; whether 
his mind was of the kind that could grasp great 
truths or not; whether he was worthy as men 
are wont to estimate worth, he was confident 
of one thing, and that was that Theodore 
had a soul for whom the Master had died, 
and, for this reason, was worth any or all the 
help he might give, — worth any or all the 
help the combined strength their little society 
might give. 

But he was unskilled in the work which had 
thus suddenly come to his hand, and he felt a 
strange timidity about further discussing this 
matter with Theodore and Jakey, and con- 
cluded to let the matter drop, not to be taken 
up again only as it might come up, from 
time to time, incidentally in their after asso- 
ciations. 

Again the boys fell to talking, as they 
watched beside the fire, of other years and other 
days ; and, by persistent questioning, Babbitt 
was enabled to get, as he thought, glimpses of 
the life from which Theodore had come, and 
was sure that there was connected with him a 
mystery that could be solved ; and that, at any 
rate, he and Jakey were fortunate in having 
become associated so intimately with so genial 
a spirit as Theodore. 

The time slipped by unheeded, and they 


68 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

were really surprised when the old cook 
emerged from the barracks and came to them, 
insisting that they should now go to their 
needed rest, as the cock had already crowed 
thrice for morning. 



Chapter VU. 

A GREAT DAY. 

I T is well, perhaps, that some mention should 
be made of the dinner the cook had prom- 
ised for the next day. To describe the courses 
would not be difficult, nor require much time, 
as they consisted, in the first place, of beans — 
baked, or as nearly baked as was possible with 
their facilities. The cook declared that they 
were, in every particular, equal to any baked 
beans that any Bostonian had ever eaten. 

The second course of the dinner that day 
was somewhat like the first, and consisted of 
beans. The men did not object to this ; for, 
being served once with this article of diet, upon 
which the cook had expended his best ability 
and greatest skill, they were not averse to a 
second course like it. 

It was not until they had reached the third 
that they demurred mildly, and suggested that 
there might be, as far as they were concerned, 
some variations ; for, contrary to their usual 

69 


70 


THE COLONELS CHARGE . 


custom, those that desired the third course, 
were served as they had been the other two — 
with beans. There were the usual accompani- 
ments — coffee without milk, a plentiful supply 
of sugar, and hard crackers — or hard-tack, as it 
was known — and those who desired to do so were 
permitted to fish from the kettle, in which the 
beans had been simmering through the night 
and half of that day, such pieces of salt-pork as 
had not been dissolved by the long and intense 
'heat that was necessary to bake the beans. 

The entire company were hearty and unan- 
imous in their declaration that the cook had 
succeeded admirably, and had given them such 
a dinner as they never dared hope for under the 
circumstances. He was pleased at this appre- 
ciation upon the part of the men, and rather as- 
tonished them as he said, by way of acknowl- 
edgment of his pleasure, 

“We must do this again, sometime!” 

Perhaps more attention would have been 
given to the meal, had there not been afloat in the 
air that morning rumors of some unusual event 
to occur some time during the day ; but, like 
most happenings in army life, there was but 
little else than rumor. Whatever the officers 
might have known of the expected turn in 
affairs they were as silent as though they knew 
nothing. 


A GREAT DAY. 71 

There had come to the men, however, from 
some source, a report that the camp would be 
visited by the adjutant-general of the State, 
and that his visit meant an inspection ; and that, 
following the inspection, there would occur the 
organization of regiments. 

Coupled with these rumors was the state- 
ment, made by those who pretended to be well 
informed, that the inspection would result in 
the rejection of a great many of the men, either 
on account of extreme age or extreme youth, 
decrepitude of years, or the tenderness of 
childhood. 

Naturally enough, this caused considerable 
uneasiness ; for there were none present who 
cared to be rejected, however much any of 
them might have repented of their choosing to 
be soldiers. If they had to go home, they pre- 
ferred that it should be a voluntary action on 
their part, rather than an enforced retirement 
because of rejection by the Government. 

Among those most interested in the matter 
was Babbitt. As has been said, he doubted 
from the first his ability to pass a rigid exam- 
ination, and was well aware that he was under 
age, if not under size. And, strange enough, the 
one next to him, who was most concerned, was 
the old cook, who had passed far beyond effect- 
ive age, and was anything but an erect figure 


72 


THE COLONELS CHARGE . 


or possessed of any of the qualifications usually 
deemed requisite for an able soldier. 

The afternoon was nearly gone, and, as there 
had been no call to drill, the men were con- 
firmed in their notion that something unusual " 
was about to happen. They were still further 
confirmed in this idea by the appearance in camp 
(with some of the officers of the various com- 
panies) of certain men of dignified bearing. 

That readily suggested to the boys that there 
were good grounds for the rumor that the State 
officials were present, and would make the 
expected examination. 

About three o’clock the camp was aroused by 
the presence of a young man in the uniform of 
a United States officer, who summoned to him 
several of the captains of the companies. Soon 
afterward, however, he drove back to town, and 
the soldiers were left to guess what his mission 
had been. 

A little while after, the same officer returned, 
and this time was accompanied by two or three 
persons in civilian’s dress, who seemed to be his 
equal, if not superior in authority, judging from 
their maneuvers. 

Soon after they appeared, there came from all 
of the barracks the cry : 

“Fall in! Fall in!” 

And immediately there followed the busy hum 


A GREAT DAY. 


73 


of men taking their places in the companies — 
the usual noise preparatory to the formation of 
squads and companies. And then came the 
movements of the various commands out upon the 
drill-ground ; every company headed toward the 
place where the officer and the accompanying 
State officials were seated in an open carriage. 

One by one the companies were filed into 
line close beside the carriage, until all of the 
twenty had been massed in a very small area 
of ground. 

Then followed low-toned conversation among 
the officials in the carriage, and some orders 
issued to the officers who stood nearest ; and, 
after this, a movement on the part of each com- 
pany to take position in a less crowded manner ; 
so that one standing by and looking on might 
have seen twenty companies of infantry ranged, 
one behind the other, with a small interval of 
space between them. 

The men were kept in this position until the 
officer had passed rapidly down in front of the 
first company ; then retraced his steps in front 
of the other company to go down behind the sec- 
ond, in front of the third, and so on, until he had 
rapidly passed before the twenty. He then re- 
turned to the carriage, and the men in the com- 
panies were ordered to be massed again in close 
order about the officials. 

7 


74 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


What all this could mean none of them could 
guess ; yet Babbitt was greatly relieved, as was 
the old cook, when some one suggested that this 
was the inspection which had been so much 
dreaded, and that they were now safe from any 
rejection on the part of the Government, and 
would surely be mustered into the United States 
service. 

When they had been re-formed about the car- 
riage, one of the officials, who had been intro- 
duced as the adjutant-general of the State, arose 
and made a very eloquent and patriotic speech, 
which, under any other circumstances, would 
have been most heartily cheered ; but the men 
had been so drilled in preserving silence that 
they made no demonstration. 

Soon afterward the carriage drove away, and 
the important event of the day seemed to have 
dwindled into rather an insignificant mass-meet- 
ing of the soldiers, with a very careless inspection. 
This was what they all thought as they returned 
to the barracks, having been the whole day 
excused from the drill — as they all thought — for 
the very purpose of this inspection. 

Scarcely, however, had they clambered into 
their bunks to lounge away the rest of the day, 
before the call was again made for them to fall 
in ; and they were quickly formed and marched 
out upon the parade-ground. 


A GREAT DAY. 


75 


This time the company officers were called 
together for consultation ; and, after an hour’s 
waiting, in which the men had nothing to do 
but to stand in their places and await orders, 
and in which the State officials and one or two 
strangers and the company officers were in con- 
sultation, ten of the companies, as designated 
in some way which none of the privates could 
understand, withdrew and returned to their bar- 
racks, leaving the other ten for future maneuvers. 

It soon became known among those in ranks 
and those in their barracks, that this division 
of the men had been made for the purpose of 
regimental formation, and that, while the men 
were not consulted in any way as to what regi- 
ment they should belong to, or what companies 
should be associated with them in regiment, the 
captains of companies, the State officials, and 
the men who had been selected as regiment 
officers, were in full agreement as to what com- 
panies should constitute the regiments. 

Though seemingly unimportant and insig- 
nificant were all these maneuvers, there was 
something about it that, to Babbitt’s mind, was 
more like soldier-life, more like preparation for 
real war, than anything he had yet experienced. 
He began to see that there were others besides 
his own officers who were concerned about the 
character and condition of the men, and he was 


76 THE COLONEHS CHARGE. 

very soon undeceived as to the review of that 
day being the critical inspection of the men, 
which should be made before they could be 
mustered into the service; for, though his com- 
pany was not one of those which had been re- 
tained on the ground to become a part of the 
First Regiment, he learned from members of 
those companies that orders had been issued for 
preparation for the expected rigid inspection, 
which would occur after a few days. 

His fears, which had been allayed by the 
first hasty review, came again with renewed 
force. He was very anxious about the outcome 
of inspection ; for he desired, having entered 
upon the service, to complete the term for which 
he had enlisted ; and the more so because he 
had begun to feel strong ties of attachment for 
Jakey, Theodore, and for several others with 
whom he had been intimately associated since 
coming into camp. One of the rumors which 
followed this selection of the companies for reg- 
iment formation was, that immediately there 
would be issued to the men the regular uni- 
forms, and that this would be followed by the 
distribution of the arms — the guns, the ammu- 
nition-boxes, and all the accouterments of the 
well-equipped soldier. 

There was, naturally, great curiosity among 
them to know just how each would appear in 


A GREAT DAY. 


77 


the uniform of the Government, and just what 
kind of uniform would be given them; also, 
what kind of arms would be distributed. 

This, too, suggested that their stay in the camp 
would be of short duration ; probably that, when 
uniformed and armed, there could be but one 
use for them, and that would be at the front, 
or, at least, somewhere in the enemy’s country. 
Then came surmises as to where and as to 
whether their short term of service would re- 
sult in actual conflict with the enemy, and what 
the result would be. 

These were some of the things of which 
Babbitt and Jakey and Theodore were talking 
just as the sun went down, when he was sur- 
prised by the appearance in camp of three per- 
sons he had not expected to see until he re- 
turned home. They were his father, Jakey ’s 
mother, and Miss Laura Lawrence. 

So surprised was he when brought face to 
face with them, that he could not find words to 
express his feelings, on account of which he 
was heartily laughed at by Miss Laura, who 
said with good-natured raillery : 

“I never knew you to lack for words before.” 

“You never saw me under such circum- 
stances before,” said Babbitt. “ Who was ex- 
pecting you , or any of you, for that matter? 
What brought you?” 


78 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


“ I do not know who shall be credited with 
this unexpected visit,” said Mr. Carl, “ unless it 
is Mrs. Jacobus here.” 

There was no denial of this statement on 
the part of Mrs. Jacobus. Indeed, she had not 
yet found words to express her sentiments; nor 
was it expected that she would. 

Very soon, having been called by Babbitt, 
Jakey made his appearance in front of the bar- 
racks, where the three were awaiting him. He 
was as much surprised as Babbitt had been, 
and seemingly as much delighted. He greeted 
his mother as one of his training might have 
been expected to greet her — with a simple 
“ How d’ye ” — but with as much meaning in 
his eyes and in his manner as was shown by 
Babbitt, or could have been shown by any one. 
His mother’s salutation was equally brief ; for 
she simply said, “Jakey!” and awkwardly 
grasped him by the hand and gave it a very 
awkward shake. 

Mr. Carl noticed the evident embarrassment 
of these two, and, without seeming to do so, 
engaged Babbitt and Miss Laura in conversa- 
tion, that Jakey and his mother might, unob- 
served, withdraw to talk over their own matters 
as they should see fit. 

Then it was that Mr. Carl said, by way of 
explanation: “Nothing would do for Mrs. Ja- 


A GREAT DAY. 


79 


cobus but that she should come and see Jakey. 
She has had an impression, she says, that unless 
she should see him now, she might never see 
him again.” 

“No wonder,” said Miss Laura. “Jakey’s 
father, you know, lies in some unknown grave 
in the South, and, while she was perfectly will- 
ing that Jakey should follow his father’s foot- 
steps, she is impressed that it will be not only 
to enlist, as he did, but perhaps to remain, as 
he does, in the South.” 

“Does she talk about that yet?” said Bab- 
bitt, in surprise. 

“ Not much ; but that is evidently the way 
she feels from what little she does say,” said 
Miss Laura. 

“But why didn’t mother come?” said Bab- 
bitt. “ All the rest of you here, how nice it would 
have been if she could have been here too ! Of 
course, you are going to stay here several days, 
are you not?” 

“ Impossible!” said Mr. Carl. “We must go 
back to-night. It is only a little way, you 
know, from home, so we concluded it would be 
best for us to come over and see how you were 
getting along.” 

“But why didn’t mother come?” asked 
Babbitt. 

Mr. Carl smiled, and said: “I may just as 


8o 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


well tell you, though I had intended to surprise 
you more than you will be surprised now; for 
your mother is here, though she did not ride out 
to the camp ; she is at the hotel.’’ 

“Didn’t she come down to the camp?” he 
said, disappointedly. 

Babbitt could not understand for the moment 
why this should be. His fears got the better of 
his judgment, and, with the keenest disappoint- 
ment depicted in every feature, and with a tone 
that was really tremulous, he said : 

“And does n’t she care to see me?” 

Then Miss Laura spoke quickly and some- 
what reprovingly, although she could appre- 
ciate Babbitt’s feelings under the circumstances, 
and said: 

“O, Babbitt, you know that can not be! Of 
course she wants to see you. She wants to see 
you so much that she dare not come to see you 
here, where so many are around you. Can ’t 
you get a leave of absence?” 

“Of course,” said Babbitt; “I should think 
so. I have not asked for any since I have been 
here. I have not left camp since we came in 
the first day.” 

“Then let us arrange,” Mr. Carl said, “to 
have you come down to the hotel and take sup- 
per with us. See, it is nearly supper-time 
now, or more than supper-time. But they will 


A GREAT DAY. 8l 

wait for us; I spoke to them about it before I 
came up.” 

“But Jakey,” said Babbitt; “what about 
him ?” 

“ Bring him with you, of course,” said Mr. 
Carl. 

Then Babbitt hesitated. There was one 
other that he wanted to take; but dared he 
suggest that matter to his father? And would 
the other accept ? After a moment’s hesitation, 
he said : 

“ But we have another friend ; can we bring 
him too?” 

Mr. Carl laughed, and said: “Yes, certainly; 
but be sure, now, Babbitt, that you do not bring 
the whole company !” 

“ Of course not, father ; but this other 
friend — I do so want you to see him.” 

“ By the way,” said Miss Laura, “ how about 
that society? Are you going to take me in?” 

“Certainly,” Babbitt replied; “you are in 
now. We have already taken you in. That is 
why I want this other friend to meet us at the 
hotel. He is to belong too, and there is some- 
thing very curious about him.” 

By this time Jakey and his mother had re- 
turned to the group, both happy in the priv- 
ilege that had been given them of seeing each 
other ; and they were at once informed of the 


82 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


arrangements to meet at the hotel for supper, 
and for a visit until the late train came that 
should take the visitors back to their homes. 

As Babbitt had anticipated, his parents and 
Miss Laura were quite as much interested in 
the history of Theodore’s life as he and Jakey 
had been ; and, after supper, Mr. Carl took the 
matter in hand, and informed himself as thor- 
oughly as possible upon the facts of TheQdore’s 
life — particularly as to when he had gone to live 
with Mr. Jenkins, as nearly as he could remem- 
ber, and what Mr. Jenkins had said to him about 
his parentage, and, in short, all the details which 
could be gathered in the short time allotted them 
in the interview. 

As they were about to separate, Mr. Carl and 
his company returning to the depot on their 
way home, and Babbitt and the boys to the 
camp, Mr. Carl said, by way of encouragement 
to Theodore, that he should lose no time in 
making a trip to the home of Farmer Jenkins, 
and obtain, if possible, some clew that he might 
work upon prior to the return of the boys from 
the war. 

All this interest in his welfare not only 
deeply affected Theodore, but aroused in his 
mind questioning as to why these people, so 
lately entirely strangers to him, not connected 
with him in any way by ties of nature, should 


A GREAT DAY. 


83 

give so much time and labor to the solving 
of the question that was of interest to him 
personally, and not to them at all, except in- 
directly. He expressed this thought to Mr. 
Carl, as he had to Babbitt, and said again: 

“ I can not understand.” 

Mr. Carl good-naturedly replied : 

“ It is not necessary, Theodore, that you 
should understand why we do this ; and yet, un- 
less I should busy myself, in some degree at 
least, in assisting you in this matter of so much 
importance to you, I would be ashamed ever 
afterward to call myself a Christian. You know 
what a Christian is, do you not, Theodore?” 

Up to this time there had been nothing said 
to Mr. Carl or the others of his party with refer- 
ence to Theodore’s attitude upon the subject of 
the religion of the Bible and of God ; so that 
the question asked him was not put design- 
edly, but came as a matter of course from the 
conversation. 

Theodore was momentarily embarrassed. He 
certainly did know in one sense what a Chris- 
tian is; so that, while he hadn’t any personal 
experiences to rely upon, he was obliged to say : 

“Certainly, Mr. Carl; but I do not know 
what that has to do with this matter.” 

“The central thought in every Christian’s 
life,” Mr. Carl said, “is labor for others, sacri- 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


84 

ficing self for the benefit of others. You know 
the law that governs the Christian, or rather, 
that guides him in his conduct (for he does not 
need to be governed), is love to God and to men, 
love for every one, and especially those that are 
in need of assistance. Where a person has had 
much done for him, he naturally feels an im- 
pulse to show his appreciation of this work by 
doing much for some one else. As Christ came 
into the world to seek the lost, so his followers 
will always be actuated by a similar desire ; 
that is, to restore the lost to their right place.” 

It was foreign to Mr. Carl’s intention to the- 
orize or sermonize at that time, as he had no idea 
but that his sentiments would find a ready 
response in the mind of Theodore. 

Babbitt wisely remained silent, taking no 
part in this conversation, fearing that he might 
overdo the matter, and, instead of attracting, 
would repel his friend. He was glad, however, 
that the occasion had come for his father to 
speak as he had spoken ; and he could see that 
Theodore was not at all offended, but rather that 
there was an interest manifest in his manner. 
Theodore finally said : 

“I understand all that, Mr. Carl; but it is 
all new to me. Where I have lived people 
have thought most of themselves, and nothing 
of others.” 


A GREAT DAY. 85 

Mr. Carl made no reply to this statement; 
but, instead, remarked : 

“I am glad that I have had the pleasure of 
making your acquaintance, Theodore ; I am glad 
that I am in a position to do you some service. 
I feel encouraged to believe that our efforts will 
not be fruitless.” 

The thought of a visit to Farmer Jenkins 
by his father awakened new hope in the mind 
of Babbitt, and led him to believe that the tact 
and energy and perseverance of his father would 
certainly bring good results. 

On the way back to camp, many were the 
bright anticipations indulged in by the boys 
of what their mutual endeavors in Theodore's 
behalf would bring forth. 

Mr. Carl and his party, as they swifty sped 
homeward on the train, were also discussing this 
subject, and were as sanguine as Babbitt that 
time would surely bring the desired informa- 
tion. Mr. Carl found an ardent sympathizer in 
the person of Miss Laura Lawrence ; and she 
at once insisted that when the trip should be 
made to Farmer Jenkins’s home she might be 
permitted to be one of the party. 

The visit to the camp, which had been under- 
taken aimlessly, except the mere fact of visiting 
the boys, seemed to have been directed for a 


86 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


better purpose than any of them had in mind 
when it was undertaken. 

No wonder that the three boys, after crawl- 
ing into their bunks and covering up with their 
blankets, spent much time in wakefulness, for it 
had indeed been a great day to them. 



Chapter VHJ. 

THE SCOUTING PARTY. 

7\ S soon as he could find the whereabouts of 
Farmer Jenkins, Mr. Carl determined to 
fulfill his promise, and visit that gentleman for 
the purpose of learning what he could of Theo- 
dore. Miss Laura insisted on accompanying 
him, and he the more readily consented to let 
her be one of the party, as Mrs. Jacobus had 
also requested to be present at the investigation. 

The drive was a long one, as Mr. Jenkins 
lived some twenty-five miles from Mr. Carl’s 
home ; but the distance did not deter the ladies 
from becoming members of the party ; indeed, 
they anticipated much pleasure from the trip, 
even though it should be barren of results as to 
Theodore’s ancestry. 

At that time in the year, the latter part of 
May, the Illinois prairie-roads are in their best 
condition, and for many miles stretch over a 
comparative level, and are as hard and smooth 
as a well-kept pike. For this reason, a drive of 

87 


88 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


twenty-five miles could be easily made. Their 
route, for a considerable distance, followed the 
section-lines, and passed along the sides of fine 
farms, occasionally touching the groves which 
could be found at intervals across the prairie, 
and especially along the water-courses. 

The start was made early in the day, just at 
sunrise, all of the party in excellent spirits, and 
determined to find as much enjoyment as pos- 
sible in their excursion. They were seated in 
an open spring-wagon, a light, handsome ve- 
hicle, with comfortable upholstered seats, drawn 
by a span of spirited and well-matched horses. 
As they left Mr. Carl’s gate, his wife waved a 
farewell, and exclaimed : 

“Peace go with you, and may you return 
with joyful tidings!” 

Before they reached the end of their journey 
the character of the landscape had greatly 
changed. Instead of broad prairie-farms, hand- 
some homes, well-kept surroundings, fruit-or- 
chards, and flower-gardens, they plunged into 
a dense woods, and followed a road which wound 
tortuously, oftentimes descending abruptly into 
the bottom of a ravine, and frequently following 
the channel of the dried-up stream, to climb 
again up a steep bank, and wind around the foot 
of some thickly-wooded mound. 

Occasionally they would pass a clearing of a 


THE SCOUTING PARTY. 


89 

few acres, a log cabin and log stables being the 
only evidence of human habitation, excepting an 
occasional barking of the dogs, and now and 
then a frowsy head thrust out of the door to see 
who the passers-by might be. 

By these scenes they knew that they were 
not far from the end of their journey ; for they 
had been told that Farmer Jenkins lived in the 
Flat Woods, a term used to describe the heavily- 
timbered district that bordered one of the insig- 
nificant rivers of that portion of the country. 

Mr. Carl consulted the directions he had 
provided himself with, and felt certain that the 
next clearing they approached would be the 
farm of the man they sought. After a short 
drive along an unusually stumpy and rutty road, 
they emerged into a clearing, and saw a house 
set well back, a man with his team near the 
road, but no other person in sight. A fence, 
made partly of rails, the ends of which in many 
places rested upon the ground, while the other 
ends were piled upon a convenient stump, against 
which was dragged the refuse brush or top- 
pings from recent clearings, stood between. 

The farmer was busy repairing this nonde- 
script fence, if the work of putting 011 a few 
extra rails here and there, or of piling the 
brush a little more compactly, could be called 
repairing. 


8 


9 o 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


At the sound of the approaching vehicle he 
looked up, but quickly resumed his work, ap- 
parently wholly indifferent as to who was com- 
ing, where they were going, or what business 
brought them to the vicinity of his farm. Mr. 
Carl’s quick eye took in the situation at a glance. 
Miss Laura was greatly surprised, and said in an 
undertone to Mrs. Jacobus : 

“How could any one consent to live here in 
this desolate region, when just a few miles away 
they might have a fine prairie-farin without 
stumps, or rocks, or any of the hard work that 
a place of this kind requires.” * 

Mrs. Jacobus made no reply, for they had 
now come alongside the busy farmer. Mr. Carl 
was the first to speak, as he stopped the team : 

“Good morning, sir.” 

The farmer straightened himself up, looked 
at the callers a moment, expectorated a quantity 
of tobacco-juice, said, “ Morning,” and resumed 
his work, as though he did not care to enter into 
conversation. 

He was of that class of men not easily de- 
scribed ; yet it would be well to have in mind 
a picture of him as he appeared to Mr. Carl and 
his companions. He was tall, muscular, yet 
stooping with the weight of years. His hat, 
pushed well back on his head, showed that he 
had a high and receding forehead, and was 


THE SCOUTING PARTY. 9 1 

partially bald. His eyes were small, gray, and 
piercing. His nose was large, long, and slightly 
inclined to be hooked. His face was smooth- 
shaven, the high cheek-bones being very promi- 
nent, and seemingly made to correspond in the 
sharpness of their outline with the pointedness 
of his chin. From ear to ear under his chin, 
hiding the throat, hung a heavy, long, gray 
beard. 

His dress was such as might have been ex- 
pected from ' one with his surroundings — a 
coarse, heavy shirt, of dark-check material; his 
pants of heavy brown jeans, the bottoms of 
which were partly caught up and partly fallen 
over the tops of high, rough shoes. He was 
constantly moving his jaws in the act of chew- 
ing the large quid of tobacco in his mouth. 
Near by stood his team, and that was the most 
attractive object in sight; for they were first- 
class- in appearance, and were well-kept, evi- 
dently having no reason to complain of their 
master. 

Mr. Carl quickly decided that he had a queer 
case to deal with, and, if he should get the de- 
sired information from him, it would probably 
be by strategy rather than by direct assault. 
Miss Laura’s heart failed her as soon as she dis- 
covered what kind of a man was before them. 

What Mrs. Jacobus thought did not appear 


92 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


at first. Indeed, one would scarcely know 
that she was thinking at all. As usual, she 
wore the old-fashioned sun-bonnet; there was 
gathered about her shoulders the light shawl 
which at all times was a portion of her costume, 
whether the weather was warm or cold. 

“Can you tell me, sir,” said Mr. Carl, finally, 
“where I could find Farmer Jenkins?” 

The man addressed lifted himself again, 
eyed his questioner curiously, and said lacon- 
ically : 

“I might,” and resumed his work. 

Mr. Carl waited for him to give the asked- 
for information; but, as he remained silent, 
though busily piling the brush against the 
stumps and rails, he was obliged to say: 

“ May I trouble you to tell me where I 
could find him?” 

“No trouble to find him,” said the other. 

“We have come a long distance to call on 
him, and if you can tell us where he is, we shall 
be under many obligations.” 

“You need go no further. What do you 
want of him ?” 

“ I would rather tell him himself what we 
want of him,” said Mr. Carl, determined not to 
understand these remarks, as it was evidently 
expected he would. 

“I am Jenkins.” 


THE SCOUTING PATTY. 


93 


“I am glad to see you, Mr. Jenkins,” said 
Mr. Carl. “ I see you are very busy, and prob- 
ably would not like to be detained by us any 
longer than necessary, so I will tell you at once 
what we came for.” 

“Well, out with it!” said Jenkins. 

“Perhaps we are occupying your time,” Mr. 
Carl said, desiring in some way to ingratiate 
himself in Jenkins’s favor. 

“Not taking my time,” he replied, as he 
continued his work, moving away from them so 
that it was necessary for them to drive still 
further along the road to keep within speaking 
distance. 

“ If you will give me just a half an hour of 
your time, and perhaps less,” said Mr. Carl, “ I 
shall feel greatly repaid for driving twenty-five 
miles to see you.” 

“Why should I give you any of my time?” 
said Jenkins. 

“ For the sake of another,” said Mr. Carl, 
“who seems to be in need.” 

“What can I do?” said Jenkins, impatiently. 

“Do you know a young man named Theo- 
dore Tompkins?” said Mr. Carl, scarcely know- 
ing whether that would be a proper question at 
that stage of the interview or not. 

“No,” said Jenkins. 

Mr. Carl was nonplused. He didn’t expect 


94 


THE COLONEUS CHARGE. 


any such response. He could not tell whether 
Jenkins was telling him the truth or simply 
lying to him to evade further questioning; so he 
said, as though apologizing for his interruption: 

“We were told that he is a friend of yours; 
that you probably could tell us something of his 
parentage.” 

Jenkins lifted himself up once more, took off 
his hat, and vigorously scratched the back part 
of his head, chewed his tobacco faster, expelled 
the saliva, and vengefully hissed : 

“ I know a young scapegrace they call The- 
odore Tompkins, but he ain’t.” 

Mr. Carl brightened quickly, and said, with 
a smile : 

“Doubtless he is the one we are asking after. 
Can you give us any information as to his par- 
entage ?” 

“I could if I would, but I won’t!” said 
Jenkins. 

Mr. Carl was unexpectedly nettled at this 
harsh reply, and he said more angrily than he 
had thought it was possible for him to speak: 

“You say you won’t, but I say you will! 
There is still some law in this land.” 

Jenkins was not moved by this threat, and 
calmly pursued his work, grunting out as he 
lifted a huge piece of tree-top into place: 

“I have heard that before. I guess there is 


THE SCOUTING PARTY, \ 


95 

no law to make a man talk if he does n’t want to, 
and I do n’t.” 

Mr. Carl felt that he was more than matched ; 
and yet didn’t desire to give up the interview 
without something from Jenkins that would 
give a clew to the past of Theodore’s life, so he 
said : 

“Mr. Jenkins, I am willing to say this: If 
you have any claim on Theodore or on his time, 
or if the information you hold as to his ancestry 
is of any value to you, I will gladly reward you 
for the information or pay you any claim you 
may have against Theodore’s time.” 

“ Perhaps you would, perhaps you wouldn’t,” 
said Jenkins. “As to his ancestry, the less you 
know about that, the better for you. As to the 
rascal himself, the less you have to do with him 
the happier you will be. Put that in your pipe 
and smoke it!” 

Mr. Carl could not resist the temptation 
to say: 

“ You do not seem to have thought so ; you 
kept him pretty close to you for about seven- 
teen years.” 

“How do you know?” said Jenkins, in sur- 
prise. “Who are you, anyway?” 

“I am Theodore’s friend,” said Mr. Carl. “I 
am not to be turned aside from the work I have 
in hand by what you say of him or his parent- 


THE CO LONE HS CHARGE . 


96 

age. He tells me that he does not know who 
his parents are. It is a mystery that he would 
like to solve; it is a mystery that I would like 
to see cleared up for his sake — for his sake only. 
I have no interest in the matter at all.” 

Jenkins lifted himself once again, took off 
his hat, and, gazing angrily at Mr. Carl, he ges- 
ticulated wildly with his other hand, saying: 

“I will tell you nothing! I will tell you 
nothing! And more than that, it will be better 
for you to leave this neighborhood as soon as 
possible. Mind what I tell you : do n’t stay 
here till night-fall !” 

Mr. Carl was completely disconcerted by this 
outburst, and was unprepared for further ma- 
neuvers, though not at all frightened by Jen- 
kins’s hints of violence or the predicted danger 
to him and his companions should the night 
come and find them still in that neighborhood. 

He was meditating what his further course 
should be, when he and Miss Laura were much 
surprised, and Farmer Jenkins greatly startled, 
by Mrs. Jacobus rising in her seat, pushing back 
her sun-bonnet until it fell upon her shoulders 
behind, stretching out her arm toward Jenkins, 
shaking her long, bony finger at him, and say- 
ing, in almost a scream : 

“ Lewis Jenkins, I know you! I know where 
you came from ! I know who Theodore is, and 


THE SCOUTING PARTY. 97 

you will have to kill me to save yourself from 
the prison! I am — I — 0!” 

She gasped for breath, clasped her hands 
over her heart, and sat down, completely over- 
come by emotion, and would have fallen out of 
the wagon had she not been caught by Laura, 
who was not so badly frightened that she could 
not care for Mrs. Jacobus. 

Jenkins suddenly lost his bravado, and stood 
as one transfixed, unable to utter a word, but 
pale and trembling, thoroughly aroused and 
frightened by this unexpected announcement. 

9 



Chapter 1^. 

THE RETREAT. 

“ TT^ILL you help me a moment?” said 

^ * Laura, when she saw that Mrs. Ja- 
cobus was apparently helpless, and was a bur- 
den that she could not easily manage by her- 
self. 

Mr. Carl dropped the lines across the dash- 
board, and turned around to assist Laura in 
caring for Mrs. Jacobus. While he was doing 
this, Jenkins improved the opportunity to spring 
into his wagon and drive rapidly toward his 
house. He need not have been in such haste, 
for Mr. Carl and Laura were intent upon caring 
for Mrs. Jacobus, and just at that time wholly 
indifferent as to Jenkins’s movements. 

“ I am afraid she is dying,” said Laura as 
Mrs. Jacobus fell still more heavily into her 
arms. 

“O, I hope not!” Mr. Carl answered, at the 
same time endeavoring to lift Laura’s burden 
98 


1 HE RETREAT. 99 

into his own arms. He, however, laid her down 
again tenderly in the arms of Laura, saying: 

“Just hold her one moment, please, until I 
have tied the horses to this sapling, lest a worse 
thing should happen to us if they should be- 
come frightened.” 

When the horses had been made secure, he 
returned to the work of providing a comfort- 
able resting-place for Mrs. Jacobus, who by this 
time seemed to be quite unconscious. He and 
Laura managed to remove the rear seat of the 
spring- wagon, so that their patient might be 
laid at full length upon the bottom of the 
wagon, having taken the precaution to use the 
cushion of the seat for a pillow for her. Hav- 
ing thus gently and kindly cared for Mrs. Ja- 
cobus, they looked at each other in silent be- 
wilderment. 

“What shall we do?” asked Laura, anx- 
iously. 

“ I was just thinking,” said Mr. Carl, con- 
tinuing to meditate. 

“If we were in a decent neighborhood,” said 
Laura, “I would know what to do.” 

“ How is that?” 

“Why, of course, we would take her to some 
convenient house, and ask that she be kept until 
she was better, or until we could remove her to 
her own home.” 


IOO 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


“Quite true,” said Mr. Carl; “but where is 
the convenient house in this locality ? It 
would not do to take her there,” he said, nod- 
ding toward Jenkins’s house. 

“Certainly not,” Laura said; “that would not 
do even if he should be willing to take her in. 
I would not trust any friend of mine in his 
keeping.” 

After a few moments of further meditation, 
Mr. Carl said: 

“The best thing for us to do is to retrace our 
way home.” 

“I don’t mind it for myself,” said Laura, 
as she thought of the long drive to be made 
in that event; “but how could Mrs. Jacobus 
Stand it?” 

“Very well, I believe,” said Mr. Carl. “You 
remember the roads, after we get out of the 
timber, are very smooth. Perhaps she will re- 
vive after awhile. At any rate, the best thing 
we can do is to get home, where we shall have 
for her proper care and nursing.” 

“Can we not make her more comfortable 
than she appears to be now?” asked Laura, as 
she looked upon the unconscious form of Mrs. 
Jacobus, her white, thin face upturned to 
the sun. 

“Certainly. You jfist remain here, and I 
will cross the field to yonder straw-stack, and I 


THE RETREAT. 


IOI 


will bring an armful of it, and we can make her 
quite a comfortable bed with the aid of these 
horse-blankets here.” 

“ But is n’t that straw Jenkins’s ?” said 
Laura, in a half-frightened tone. “Will he let 
you take it?” 

“Let me?” Mr. Carl said, in a contempt- 
uous tone. “I shall not ask him. I shall go 
and get it — what I need of it. It is fortunate 
that he has that much left over from his last 
year’s crops.” Without further delay, he has- 
tened to the straw-stack and procured an arm- 
ful — quite enough to make a very comfortable 
bed for their patient. 

They spread the straw upon the bottom of 
the wagon-bed, and over this stretched the two 
blankets which Mr. Carl always carried with 
him when taking a long drive, for the purpose 
of protecting his horses from taking cold when 
overheated. The cushion was used as a seat 
for Miss Laura, placed flat upon the bed, while 
she insisted upon making her lap a pillow for 
Mrs. Jacobus’s head. When the ladies were 
arranged in this way, the other seat was put in 
the wagon in front of Mr. Carl, and they started 
on their homeward journey. 

Their road for an hour ran through the 
heavily-timbered district, and was a tedious and 
tortuous route. Many times during the hour 


102 


THE COLONEES CHARGE. 


Mr. Carl looked back to see how the sick one 
and Miss Laura were faring, and to encourage 
the young lady, as well as he could, to brace 
herself against any possible fatigue, saying that 
as soon as they got out of the timber they would 
make good time ; for he would not spare his 
horses, but hasten home at good speed. 

When high noon arrived, they found them- 
selves upon the point of emerging from the 
timbered district into the open prairie. 

“ If we are to make our drive home to- 
night,” said Mr. Carl, “ it is best for us to stop 
here and let the horses rest. We ourselves will 
rest and eat our dinner under the shade of these 
trees.” 

Turning aside from the highway into a se- 
cluded nook, they stopped. Mrs. Jacobus was 
made as comfortable as possible upon the cush- 
ion pillow, while Miss Laura gave her atten- 
tion to the spreading of the lunch, or dinner, 
which they had brought with them, Mr. Carl 
attending to the horses. 

“ I do n’t feel like eating,” said Mr. Carl, 
when they were seated, near by the wagon, on 
convenient stumps, the dinner between them on 
a white cloth spread on the grass; “but I know 
that you and I both must take care of ourselves 
if we would be in a condition to take care of 
Mrs. Jacobus. Perhaps you would rather have 


THE EE TEE AT. 


103 

gone straight home,” he said to Miss Laura, 
“instead of stopping by the wayside.” 

“No, indeed. I think that you have acted 
wisely. I am not very much accustomed to 
such expeditions as this,” she said, smiling ; 
“but I believe that I shall have strength to get 
through with it.” 

“We surely shall be strengthened,” he said; 
“ for you know the promise is, that ‘as our days, 
so shall our strength be.’ ” 

“I have often thought of that promise,” 
said Miss Laura, “but I do not know that it 
ever came to me with as much force as it does 
now.” 

“What grieves me most now,” said Mr. Carl, 
“ is not that old Jenkins would not tell me what 
he knows, but that Mrs. Jacobus may not re- 
cover so as to tell us what she knows.” 

“Were you ever more surprised in your 
life?” asked Laura. “Who would have thought 
that she knew Mr. Jenkins?” 

“ I am not sure yet,” Mr. Carl said, “ that 
she does know him. You know she is so very 
queer, and we have been talking about him in 
her presence ever since we were at the camp, 
off and on, and she may have, in some way, im- 
agined that she knew him, and her saying what 
she did to him may have been another of her 
queer freaks.” 


io4 


THE CO LONE VS CHARGE . 


“But you don’t believe it is?” exclaimed 
Laura. 

“ No, I really do n’t believe it was a freak of 
hers, and yet I am only suggesting that that is 
a possibility.” 

“ But if she really knows Jenkins, and really 
knows who Theodore is, why is it that she had 
never told us anything of her knowledge ?” 

“I can’t explain that,” said Mr. Carl; “but 
you will remember that, during all the time that 
we have been talking about this matter and 
planning this trip, she has said nothing one way 
or the other. The only thing that I can now 
see reasonable in her saying that she knows 
Jenkins, or had known him, and knew who 
Theodore is, is that she insisted upon coming 
with us to-day. She possibly might have 
thought that this Jenkins was not the one that 
she knew, or that this young man was not the 
person whose disappearance she was acquainted 
with, so waited until she had seen Jenkins be- 
fore saying anything about it.” 

“ I do hope it is that way,” said Laura. “ I 
do hope she will get well. What do you sup- 
pose is the matter with her now, Mr. Carl? 
Did she faint?” 

“She certainly fainted,” he said; “but I 
was noticing her a few minutes ago, and it 
seems to me that she has quite a fever. You 


THE RETREAT. 


105 

know for several weeks, perhaps months, she 
has been under a severe nervous strain. The 
loss of her husband, and then Jakey’s going 
away, and all the other exciting events that 
have recently occurred, have told greatly on her 
feeble strength ; so I think it is a case of nerv- 
ous prostration, and I fear that it may be fol- 
lowed by severe fever, that may result fatally.” 

“ O, I hope not!” said Laura, earnestly, and 
with ill-suppressed emotion. 

‘‘So do I ; but we must look at the matter 
just as it is, and not count anything upon any 
aid that she may give us.” 

“But will you see Jenkins again?” said 
Laura. 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Carl, and then laugh- 
ingly said : “But next time I call at his house, 
it will not be with — ” he hesitated, not know- 
ing whether to finish his sentence or not, lest 
he should unintentionally offend his friend. 

“ I know what you were about to say,” said 
Laura, smiling; “and yet, after all, you can 
not deny that it was a good thing that this 
time you went there you were accompanied by 
women.” 

“ Well, I had not thought of it in just that 
light,” said Mr. Carl, good-naturedly. “ Seeing 
yon understand what I was about to say, I will 
now say it,” he said. “The next time I go 


106 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

there it will not be with women, but with offi- 
cers of the law.” 

“ But what can law do in this matter?” said 
she. “ What power can make Jenkins tell what 
he knows if he does not want to tell it?” 

Mr. Carl was silent a moment, and then 
said : 

“ My plans are not yet matured ; but there 
certainly is some way of finding out what we 
want to know. You are yourself witness that 
he said he knows, but will not tell.” 

‘‘Yes, I can testify to that ; but still I doubt 
whether there is any power on earth that could 
make him give any information he has if he 
does not wish to do so. I believe that he would 
go to prison rather than to yield his point,” con- 
tinued Laura. 

“Very well; we shall see,” said Mr. Carl. 
“ By the way, can you recollect what time Mrs. 
Jacobus came to our town? or was that before 
you could remember?” 

“It was not before I could remember, 
surely,” she said; “but it is difficult for me 
now to fix the time. I know she has lived there 
a great many years ; but you know that, until re- 
cently, circumstances have not thrown me into 
her society, or brought me any way into con- 
tact with her only indirectly, and I can not re- 
member.” 


THE RETREAT. 


107 


“ So it is with me,” Mr. Carl said. “I know 
that Jakey and Babbitt have been good school 
friends, and they have visited each other back 
and forward; but really our families have not 
been intimate, and I never have known much, 
if anything, of Mrs. Jacobus’s history previous 
to the war. Indeed, I have known more of her 
since her husband went into the army than at 
any time; and as to that, I have seen more of 
her during the last month than perhaps the 
past year previous, all because of Babbitt and 
Jakey being so intimately associated in the 
company.” 

“ It is a great mystery to me,” said Miss 
Laura, thoughtfully, after they had finished 
their lunch, and both sat musing over the events 
of the day. “The greatest mystery is that I 
should have had anything to do with it.” 

“ I hope that you are not sorry,” said Mr. 
Carl, “ that you yielded to your impulse to ask 
to become a member of Babbitt’s society.” 

“Indeed I am not sorry,” she said. “I 
think that it is grand to be able to do something 
for somebody else without any thought of re- 
ward or pay. It seems to me that the most of 
my life has been spent in doing the things that 
I really wanted to do, and that promised to be 
of some benefit to me; and I can not say that I 
wanted to make this trip to-day for any other 


108 THE CO LONE VS CHARGE. 

purpose than simply to do something for some 
person for the love of Jesus.” 

“ That is a good view to take of the matter; 
and yet, after all, if we consider His promise, 
and we certainly do, we shall have our reward 
even for that.” 

“ As to that,” said Miss Laura, “ I have my 
pay now, in the satisfaction of knowing I have 
done my duty.” 

A short time afterward they were comfort- 
ably settled in the wagon, on their way home. 

“ I think, if all goes well,” Mr. Carl said, 
“ even if we have to go slow over a portion of 
the road that is rough, as I remember it now, 
that we can, perhaps, get home by sundown 
without hurrying the team at all.” 

“How far is it, do you think, from here?” 
Miss Laura asked, anxiously. 

“Well, I should judge that we are about 
twenty miles from home at present.” 

“And that is how many hours drive with 
tired horses?” asked Miss Laura. 

“Well, with a fresh team,” Mr. Carl said, “I 
could make the twenty miles easily in four 
hours ; but after they have traveled thirty miles 
already, I am afraid I will have to be easy on 
them ; so we will see if we can make it in five 
and a half hours — perhaps six.” 

“That means after sundown,” said Laura. 


THE EE TEE AT. 


109 


“Certainly; but it will be that much better. 
I am really glad that we shall not get home 
until after night-fall. We shall be able to get 
into town and to our homes without attracting 
much attention. So many rumors might be put 
into circulation, and some exaggerated reports 
might get to the boys. I would rather that no 
one inform them of this excursion to-day until 
I have written to them myself.” 

- “True,” said Miss Laura; “but it seems a 
long time — six hours. I am afraid I shall not 
be able to stand it,” she said, doubtfully. 

“O yes, yon will,” said- Mr. Carl. “I am 
sure you will ; I am going to ask the Lord to 
help you stand it. I do n’t think I ever asked 
the Lord for anything but what he gave it if it 
was right I should have it, and I am sure this is 
a right thing to ask.” 

“But as to the writing to the boys,” Miss 
Laura said. “I am going to ask a favor 
of you.” 

“Well?” he replied inquiringly. 

“ May I not write to them, and tell them 
what I know of the matter?” 

“Why, certainly; but I meant I would not 
like to have some other person write to them or 
get the word to them before we had told them 
the facts, for fear that some exaggerated report 
or distorted account might reach them.” 


no THE COLONEL'S CHARGE . 

“Well, I am anxious,” she said, “to write 
them and tell what I know, and what I have 
seen and heard. Do you think it would be 
proper for me to tell them just what Mr. Jenkins 
said about Theodore?” 

“ O, I don’t know,” Mr. Carl said. “What 
he said may have some truth in it — probably 
has from his stand-point ; and yet I believe it 
would not be best to excite their prejudice 
against their new friend on account of anything 
Jenkins may have said.” 

“Very well, I will leave out that part of it.” 

“Yet another thing,” said Mr. Carl, “per- 
haps none of us had better write them anything 
about it until we see what the outcome will be 
with Mrs. Jacobus. We can not tell them now 
without telling them what happened to her, and 
that might needlessly alarm Jakey. If we should 
wait, and she should get well after a few days, 
we would have much more to tell ; and if we 
should wait, and she should not get well, then we 
would know the worst, and it would be better 
for Jakey, perhaps, to know all and be done with 
it, than to keep him in suspense.” 

“I believe you are right,” Miss L,aura said. 
“We can afford to wait ; in either case it would 
be best to wait, so I will not send any word at 
all until you think it is the proper time.” 

“I don’t wish to control your actions in the 


THE EE TEE AT. 


Ill 


matter,” Mr. Carl said; “but, in my judgment, 
a few days more will not make any difference in 
this matter. Perhaps, by that time, I can tell 
more than I know now ; for I do n’t intend to 
give up the search until I have reached the 
truth.” 

The day was waning fast, and the little party 
were several miles from home. Mrs. Jacobus 
had tossed restlessly on the lap of Miss Laura, 
as she patiently held her head, and talked inco- 
herently of many things ; but at no time did she 
reply to any of the questions asked her by either 
of her companions ; at no time did she open her 
eyes. And Miss Laura noted with increasing 
alarm that the fever grew in violence, and that 
her patient’s face had lost its wonted paleness, 
and now glowed with bright red spots upon 
either cheek. 

Whenever opportunity afforded, they had 
stopped at farm-houses and procured fresh water, 
with which they bathed her face and moistened 
her parched lips. 

The sun had gone down an hour before, 
when they drove up to the door of Mr. Carl’s 
house and were greeted by Mrs. Carl, who could 
not refrain from an exclamation of surprise and 
sorrow when she had been briefly told of the 
result of that day’s expedition. 



Chapter 


A DARING DEED. 



HE day came for the regiment to leave 


Mattoon for the South. That morning they 


were up early, had three days’ rations cooked 
and in their haversacks. They waited in line 
for several hours, but still the train to bear them 
away did not come. To relieve them of the 
tediousness of inactive waiting, Colonel Smith 
decided to put them through the battalion drill. 

He rode a spirited black horse — one that was 
unused to military display, that had never faced 
the flashing of a thousand bright bayonets, nor 
heard the clatter of sword-scabbards, nor seen 
the sweep of companies as they wheeled into 
line; and all these excited him, and so fright- 
ened him that he reared and plunged and 
pranced about in an alarming style. The colo- 
nel, however, kept his seat, and was cool and 
imposing amidst his steed’s cavorting. 

But he made an unfortunate move, — order- 
ing the battalion, “at double-quick, on the right 


1 1 2 


A DARING DEED. 


113 

by file into line.” He put spurs to his horse, 
to gallop around to the front of the newly 
formed line, and was admiring the promptness 
and precision with which they had come to the 
proper position, when his horse reared, plunged 
forward, and rushed down the front of the regi- 
ment. The colonel pulled on the reins, when 
the bit parted at the middle, dropped out of the 
horse’s mouth, and almost unseated the rider as 
he fell backward on the saddle when the bit 
gave way. Instantly the colonel recovered his 
position, but the horse, feeling himself free, 
reared again, and again dashed forward, threat- 
ening the colonel’s life and imperiling the lives 
of the soldiers toward whom he was rushing in 
a frenzy of fright. 

All hearts stood still. All eyes were on the 
mad steed and his helpless rider. All were fixed 
with fear, and benumbed with a sense of their 
powerlessness. Not all — for Theodore saw the 
danger, and he saw a way to avert disaster to 
others, even though it should prove fatal to 
himself. 

He flung his gun from him, threw off his 
cap, and leaped at the horse’s head as he 
dashed by. He clung to his neck one second, 
and the next seized his nostrils with one hand, 
his foretop with the other, and swung his whole 
weight on the horse’s head, pulling it down 
10 


1 14 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

until the nose touched the ground, and the 
fierce animal stopped. 

The colonel leaped from the saddle, despite 
his wounded leg, hastily twisted the reins about 
the horse’s neck, and said to Theodore : 

“A brave deed, nobly done, my boy. But 
see, you are hurt!” 

And so he was. The iron-shod hoof had 
struck him above the knee, and had gashed the 
flesh to the bone. His arms had been strained 
fearfully in that short, sharp, but decisive contest. 
His head was bleeding, and what other injuries 
he had received, only a surgical examination 
could discover. 

The surgeon was there in an instant. He 
took Theodore in charge, and listened to direc- 
tions given by the colonel in a low tone. 

The carriage of a citizen who had driven out 
to see the troops maneuver was procured, and 
Theodore taken to a private residence to have 
his wounds dressed. 

Another horse was brought the colonel, and 
the drill continued until the train arrived. 

Then the men were marched to the depot, 
and embarked on the cars for the South. Babbitt 
and Jakey felt their hearts bound in pride when 
Theodore so heroically saved the colonel’s life, 
but when they marched away and left him behind, 
they were sorrowful beyond expression. 


A DARING DEED. 


115 

But he was not left behind! He insisted on 
going, and the doctors took him to the train and 
put him aboard the cars. 

Miss Lou was there to see the regiment leave. 
As soon as he could get away from the troops, 
the colonel sought her in the hotel, and told her 
all the particulars of the rescue. 

“ Never in battle did I feel so near death as 
when the bit broke,” he said, yet trembling from 
excitement and exhaustion. 

“Never were you nearer death,” Miss Lou re- 
plied, earnestly. “I shudder yet, when I think 
of it.” 

“I tell you, sister, I have no time now for de- 
tails ; but if we rmist adopt some one in Oswald’s 
place, this brave lad must be the one.” 

“ I should say so, too, brother,” she answered. 
“And have you yet learned his name?” 

“Yes, indirectly; but I shall ask him as soon 
as we get under way to-night.” 

“And what is it?” 

“Theodore, I think; but I am not sure, and 
can not remember the last name.” 

“Brother — ” Miss Lou hesitated, and smiled 
faintly, and then said: “Shadows and straws! 
Why can we not have something better?” 

“What now?” he asked, though he well knew 
what she meant. 

“If this one could only be the real one!” 


Il6 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

“If!” he said, with a sigh. 

“I know, brother, there is the ‘if,’ but how 
romantic an ‘if’ it is!” 

“Entirely too much so. But, hark! that is 
the whistle. I must go. Good-bye, once more!” 

“ Good-bye, brother dear ! God be with you — 
and him” 

“Good-bye! but do not build on that; it is 
only a straw!” 

The train was already beginning to move 
when the colonel limped across the platform and 
swung on to the officers’ car, at the rear of the 
long line of freight-cars that had been provided 
to carry the troops South, though there were a 
few cars of a better grade in the train. 

At first slowly, until outside the town limits, 
and then rapidly, the two puffing engines dragged 
the crowded cars southward. 


•nL'* . ♦sP •sU' *,U -sb- ^1^ 

_ 

llllllllt'lilllllllllll 

v'P* * / | N >* *'j N * ✓p# ✓p* ✓JV* ✓p* 


Chapter ^{. 

LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS. 

T HE train sped on at a furious rate, roaring 
through deep cuts, rattling across long 
trestles, gliding over dead levels, the clickety- 
clack of the wheels against the ends of the rails 
making a weird music that seemed to soothe the 
restless spirits aboard the cars, and the more so 
because of its very monotony. 

Night had come and enveloped all in total 
darkness, except what light was given by a few 
dimly-burning lamps swung from the roof of 
the cars. 

Jakey and Babbitt, as soon as they had de- 
posited their accouterments, got a seat next to 
Theodore, and plied him with questions rela- 
tive to the accident and how he felt. Babbitt 
said : 

“You are hurt bad enough to have staid 
and been doctored instead of coming with us, 
and you could have followed on some other 
train.” 



nU nL* 



1 1 1 1 1 1 1 ! 1 1 1 1 1 ! 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 iniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiriii 


1 1 7 



Il8 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

“So I could,” Theodore replied; “but I did 
not want to. The fear that I would have to 
stay was all that worried me. As it is, I did n’t 
get to march with you down to the depot; but 
I saw you go by. The house where they took 
me to have the bandages put on was right near 
the street, and I watched you from the window, 
even while they were tying up my leg. It was 
a pretty sight, the hundreds of men marching 
steadily, their guns at a right-shoulder, and the 
bayonets gleaming in the sunlight. The very 
sight of it made me think there is something in 
life worth living for.” 

Babbitt and Jakey were surprised at the en- 
thusiasm manifested by Theodore, and quite as 
much surprised by the ease with which he 
seemed to express his ideas ; for they had so 
far had no intimation of any school privileges 
Theodore had had, and Babbitt felt that, with 
all his training at school, and all the reading it 
had been his privilege to do, he had not nearly 
so clear a mind nor so fluent a language as 
Theodore; so, though it was a departure from 
the subject of their conversation, he abruptly 
asked : 

“Where did you ever go to school?” 

“ I never went to school,” Theodore said, 
smiling; “and I suppose, to be strictly honest, 
I must give old Jenkins credit. He was a great 


LIGHT O UT OF DARKNESS. ' 1 1 9 

reader, and he taught me to read, and when I 
was quite young made me read. When I was 
older I read because I wanted to; but I must 
say that he helped me to read; and though he 
was so cross and at times so cruel, he seemed to 
take, a delight in having me tell him about 
things that I had read, while he would quiz me 
to see if I understood as he did. That Jenkins 
is a queer man anyway.” 

Babbitt did not care to question him further 
on this line, so he gave his attention to such ar- 
rangements of articles about Theodore as he 
thought would conduce to his comfort, and per- 
haps prepare a place where he could sleep dur- 
ing the night. 

There was not much prospect, however, of 
any one sleeping a very great deal that night on 
that train. No stops were made at any of the 
Stations, except where it was necessary for the 
engines to take either water or wood, or both ; 
consequently there was no effort on the part of 
the officers to keep a guard over the men, and 
they freely passed from one car to another, 
laughing, joking, and playing pranks upon one 
another. 

However, the car in which Theodore and his 
friends had found seats was less disturbed by 
the wandering minstrels and chronic jokers than 
the others; for among most of them there was 


120 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


the suspicion that it was reserved entirely for 
officers. It was also better lighted than the 
other cars, and it was quite possible to discern 
the features of one if you sat close to him. The 
roar and rattle of the cars, however, over a road 
which was not particularly smooth, made con- 
versation difficult. It was necessary to ask and 
answer questions in a very loud tone to carry on 
conversation at all. For this reason, it was only 
at long intervals that anything was said by the 
boys to each other. 

Some time after ten o’clock the door opened 
near where Theodore sat, and an officer entered, 
closed the door after him, and peered into the 
faces of those nearest, as if searching for some 
one. At first he stood with his back to Theo- 
dore. When he had turned about he quickly 
recognized him in the dim light by the ban- 
dages about his head and arm and leg. 

“Well, how do you get along, my friend?” 
he said, seating himself in the place vacated by 
Babbitt in front of Theodore. 

“Very well.” 

“Are you suffering much pain?” 

“ Not much. My head feels a little sore and 
my arm pains me, but the leg is all right.” 

The questioner was no other than Colonel 
Smith. He had come, as he said he would, to 
make further inquiries about Theodore before 


LIGHT O UT OF DARKNESS. 1 2 1 

he should retire for the night, as a sleeping-car 
had been provided for the regimental officers. 
For the reasons already mentioned, he found it 
very difficult to talk with his wounded friend ; 
but he sat and looked at him with a tenderness 
that a father or an elder brother might have 
shown. The colonel was a handsome man — 
young, full of vigor, with bright eyes, intelligent 
face, and commanding figure, and possessed a 
kindliness of manner that was sure to win him 
friends wherever he went. Taking out a note- 
book and pencil, he asked : 

“What is your name?” 

“Theodore Tompkins.” 

After making a minute of this as well as he 
could, bracing himself to steady his hand against 
the roll and pitch of the car, he looked up and 
asked again : 

“What is your father’s name?” 

Theodore did not reply. He looked at the 
colonel, glanced at Babbitt, and remained si- 
lent. The colonel supposed that he had not 
heard the question distinctly, so, lifting his 
voice still higher, he asked : 

“What is your father’s name? Where does 
he live?” And then, that Theodore might un- 
derstand why he asked, he said: “I must write 
to him and tell him about what you have done 
for me.” 


ii 


122 


THE COLONEVS CHARGE. 


Theodore shook his head and looked down- 
ward. The colonel again supposed that he had 
not heard, or had misunderstood; so, rising, he 
leaned over Theodore until his face was quite 
close to that of the boy, and said: 

“If you will give me your father’s address, 
I will write to him. I want to tell him how 
thankful I am that he has as brave a boy 
as you.” 

Theodore looked up, and with a countenance 
that was full of grief, and a lip which quivered, 
he said: 

“I have no father!” 

The colonel had prepared to write the name 
when it should be given him; but when he 
heard these words, gave a little exclamation of 
surprise, and, leaning over, said: 

“Your mother’s name?” 

Again Theodore shook his head, and, lifting 
his eyes toward the officer, replied: 

“ I have no mother.” 

The colonel straightened himself up, and, 
clinging to one of the hat-racks near by with 
one hand, holding his note-book and pencil in 
the other, he gazed long and steadily into the 
face of Theodore, showing distinctly that he 
was deeply touched by the apparent loneliness 
of his young friend. There occurred to him 
another question — a question which had been 


LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS. 


123 


asked him at one time when he was taken into 
the hospital for treatment, after having been 
wounded at Shiloh, so he said to Theodore : 

“Who is your next friend?” 

Theodore smiled at this, and, with his well 
arm pointing toward Babbitt, said: 

“ There he is.” 

The colonel faced half about, and seeing to 
whom Theodore referred, he said: 

“ O, I see! But is there not some one to 
whom I may write? Have you not left some 
one behind?” 

Again Theodore shook his head, and said, 
sadly : 

“ No one that I care for.” 

Putting his note-book back into his pocket, 
and replacing his pencil, the colonel leaned over 
and said, amid the roar and rattle of the car: 

“You have — told me — this — young — sol- 
dier — is — your next — friend. Let me — be the — 
next one — to him” — touching himself with his 
forefinger. 

The excitement of the day, the exhaustion 
of his wounds, and the emotions stirred up by 
the questions the colonel had propounded were 
too much for Theodore, and he was obliged to 
hide his eyes for a moment and to brush away 
the tears that came unbidden as he thought of 
the persistent kindness of the officer, and of 


124 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


what his request implied. The colonel remained 
standing, supporting himself as before, intending 
to bid the boy farewell and return to his own 
car. However, just at that instant the speed of 
the train slackened perceptibly; the noise which 
had before made conversation so difficult ceased 
in part, and he tarried a moment, that he might 
make further inquiries about Theodore. 

Presently the train came to a stand-still, and 
all was quiet excepting the noise that came 
from the forward part, where men were busily 
throwing wood into the tender from the yard in 
the midst of the woods where the train had 
halted. The colonel improved this opportunity 
to take his seat in front of Theodore, and, in a 
low voice, which was not heard by any except 
the ears it was intended for — Theodore’s, Bab- 
bitt’s, and Jakey’s — said: 

“Boys, I am a soldier and an officer, and am 
proud of my rank and of my privilege, but I was 
a man before I was either officer or soldier, and 
I am not ashamed of my manhood ; so let us 
forget just for a moment that I am an officer, 
and that you are soldiers under my command. 
Theodore, I want to say to you that my heart 
beats in sincere sympathy. You have said that 
you have no father, no mother, and no one be- 
hind that you care anything for. I want to say 
for your encouragement that I have no father 


LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS. 


125 


and no mother, and only a sister behind that I 
care anything for. I would like to tell you 
some time, if we have an opportunity, of my 
life, but I can not to-night, of course. But let me 
tell you this : Years ago my father and mother, 
myself, my sister, and a baby brother were 
making a trip up the Missouri River, my father 
intending to make some investments in the 
West, and had taken us along for company, and 
that we might see the wild country, or portions 
of it, through which we were to go. Suddenly, 
at the very hour of midnight, in one of the dark- 
est nights it seemed to me I ever saw, the 
boiler of the boat exploded, and we were all 
tossed up in the air, and some of us remember 
how, after the noise of the explosion, there was 
silence and darkness, the screams of some and 
the struggles of the many in the water. What 
was left of the boat took fire, of course, and the 
river was lighted up by the flames of its burning. 
My sister and I were rescued, I scarcely know 
how, but we were picked up by some passing 
boat. My father and mother and baby brother 
I have never seen or heard of since.” 

He arose here, for the train had begun to move 
on. Reaching out his hand to Theodore, he said : 

“Good-bye; we will see each otl^er again 
some time and then returned to his own car. 

Babbitt and Jakey (Tame nearer to where 


126 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE . 


Theodore sat, and they could distinctly see, even 
by the dim light of the lamp overhead, that 
there was a gleam of hope in Theodore’s face. 
The knowledge that some other person had suf- 
fered a bereavement like his, or more terrible, 
if anything, comforted him in a strange way, and 
he felt now not so much alone as he had before. 

The night wore away finally, and when the 
dawn of another day came, the cars were rap- 
idly rolling through a country that was very 
diffe^nt from anything that Babbitt had seen 
in all his life. He had been accustomed to the 
broad, level, treeless prairies, to the new, bright, 
and cheerful-appearing homes of the people 
who lived in those prairie villages or upon the 
prairie-farms. 

As he looked out of the little windows of the 
car, he could see here and there a dilapidated 
log house sitting in a small clearing, surrounded 
on all sides by a dense forest. The road itself 
was not straight and smooth like the railroads 
across the prairies, but was crooked, winding in 
and out around the hills, plunging through the 
deep cuts, and making such sudden turns that 
the train would assume the form of a letter S, 
as it dragged itself slowly along. 

So far there had been nothing to eat or 
drink except what food they had been able to 
take from their haversacks ; nor had there been 


LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS. 


1 27 


any opportunity for sleeping more than an occa- 
sional nap, and all were tired and cramped with 
the long, tedious ride in the crowded cars. For 
several hours they continued their slow course 
until finally, just before noon, the train came to 
a stand-still, and the voices of the officers were 
heard calling loudly to the men : 

“Fall in ! Fall in !” 

They immediately grabbed their guns and 
their accouterments, and prepared to disembark. 
When they had done so, they found themselves 
in line on the levee of the Ohio River, at the 
city of Cairo, Illinois. 


iiTuiiiiTrn >i iliiiiilnliilliliiiiil 







Chapter* 3£JJ: 

THE COLONEL’S STORY. 

W HEN tlie regiment reached Memphis, 
after a stay of a few days in Cairo, Bat> 
bitt was surprised by an order to report at the 
colonel’s head-quarters. Leaving his mess, 
which consisted of himself, Jakey, Theodore, and 
George Patton, a new-found friend, he saluted the 
sentinel in front of the colonel’s tent, and said: 
“ I have been told to report to the colonel.” 
Just at this moment the colonel’s orderly 
came out of the tent, and the guard said 
to him: 

“This corporal has been ordered to report 
to the colonel.” 

The orderly turned about and said: 
“Colonel, here is a corporal who has been 
ordered to report to you.” 

Colonel Smith arose and came to the door 
of the tent, and, seeing who he was, said 
kindly: 

“Yes, Corporal, I sent for you. There are 
128 


THE COLONELS STORY. 


129 


some things that I would like to have done — 
some arranging of articles about my tent and 
head-quarters — and I wish you would go back 
to the company and tell the captain to have de- 
tailed for you four men, or four with yourself,” 
he said, correcting the command, “then report 
to me here.” 

Babbitt returned to company head-quarters 
and delivered the message, and was delighted 
when the captain said: 

“Very well; I will detail your mess. Go 
and take them over to the head-quarters.” He 
then called the orderly sergeant and said to 
him: “I have detailed the Little Corporal’s 
mess to report for duty at regimental head- 
quarters.” 

Babbitt hastened to his tent, where the other 
three were resting, the afternoon drill having 
quite fatigued Jakey and George, and, without 
telling the boys what the colonel wanted, said 
with what seriousness he could under the cir- 
cumstances : 

“Fall in!” 

The boys, of course, thought it was a joke, 
and commenced to guy him, and cried out 
to him: 

“ You fall in!” 

He, however, insisted that it was the order 
of the captain, and that to save themselves from 


130 THE COLONELS CHARGE . 

reprimand they had better obey. Then George 
spoke up and said : 

“A nice how d’y’ do! I wonder if Captain 
Mooney knew who were in your mess?” 

“ I do n’t know,” said Babbitt, beginning to 
catch the drift of George’s remark. “ I know 
this : that he told me to take my mess and re- 
port at the regiment head-quarters for duty, and 
he told the orderly the same thing.” 

“ But you just look there once,” said George, 
pointing to his coat, which hung up against the 
pole at the further end of the tent. 

“Well, I am not to be blamed for that!” said 
Babbitt, laughing heartily when he saw that the 
captain’s order, if obeyed, involved the putting 
of the sergeant under the command of the cor- 
poral, a thing which even soldiers of their expe- 
rience could not tolerate. “What shall I do?” 
said Babbitt. “ Shall I report that one of my 
mess refuses duty?” 

“ O no !” said George, quickly. “ I will tell 
you ; just for the appearance of the thing, I will 
borrow somebody else’s coat and leave mine 
here. Nobody will know the difference.” 

This was done, and. gladly done, by George; 
for he would have regretted very much to have 
missed the opportunity of visiting regiment 
head-quarters, and in assisting in whatever 
work might be needed there, notwithstanding 


THE COLONEL'S STORY. 


X 3I 

he had to leave behind his coat adorned with a 
sergeant’s chevrons. 

When they had reported for duty — Theodore 
being in a too dilapidated condition to do any 
kind of work, but insisting on going — they were 
assigned to the lifting about of several boxes and 
chests, and similar tasks, the colonel remarking 
to his orderly that there were some messages he 
would like carried to the town, and saying to 
the guard who had stood by the door that he 
might report again to his company, as he prob- 
ably would not need him now that he had the 
corporal’s squad here. There was a plan in this 
maneuver; for the colonel desired to have his 
tent to himself and the boys. 

Fortunately he was not unacquainted with 
George. Indeed, he had known his parents 
previous to the war. And although Jakey was 
not known to him, yet, because of Theodore’s 
friendship, he could make no objection to his 
presence. After awhile he called them into the 
tent, and bade them be seated, and then made 
inquiries as to Theodore’s condition and how he 
was improving, and, in one way or another, di- 
rected the conversation until it was easy for him, 
and without any abruptness, to say: « 

“ I promised you, Theodore, some time to 
tell you more particularly about that night on 
the Missouri. This is as good a bime as any. 


132 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE . 

There is photographed in my memory the pic- 
ture of our state-room that night just after sup- 
per had been served. It was a double state- 
room, provided with an upper and lower berth 
on each side. It was spacious, richly carpeted, 
and well lighted. We — sister and I — had gath- 
ered in the room, and mother, who occupied 
one of the lower berths, had undressed my lit- 
tle brother for bed. He was very playful, and 
she was gratifying his humor and tossing him 
about in the berth, tickling him on this side 
and on that, and gurgling him under the chin, 
snatching him up in her arms to toss him down 
again, and rolling him over and over in very 
exuberance of joy, while he all the time was 
laughing and screaming with delight. 

“While she was at this, father came in. I 
can see now how father sat down on the edge 
of the berth beside which my mother was kneel- 
ing, the baby rolling and tumbling before her, 
while I stood just behind her, and my sister 
leaned on father’s shoulder and watched the 
antics of our baby boy. Tiring of play after 
awhile, he noticed the gold locket which my 
mother wore about her neck, attached to a 
heavy gold chain, and, reaching up, took hold 
of it, and as plainly as it was possible for one 
who could not talk distinctly, expressed a desire 
to have it about his own neck. Mother quickly 


THE COLONELS STORY. 


*33 


unclasped tlie chain and put it about his neck, 
the rest of us the meanwhile watching and ap- 
plauding. He was very proud of the jewel, and 
seemed more intent on examining it than on 
frolicking as he had before. Father, myself, 
and my sister left the state-room and went out 
for a stroll around the boat. 

“By and by we returned. Mother was sit- 
ting on the berth, a paper in her hand, reading. 
Our baby brother was lying asleep, his head on 
the pillow, his little gown unfastened at the 
throat and turned back on both sides, laying 
bare his white neck and breast. Around the 
neck clung the golden chain. On his breast 
lay the little locket. I remember that his feet 
were drawn partly up, his gown pulled up above 
his knees, and that we noticed how like a pic- 
ture he lay — feet, legs, and neck bare; face 
white and pink ; his eyes closed, the long lashes 
drooping heavily on his pretty face. As we 
came in, mother dropped her paper in her 
lap, and, turning to father, said: ‘Was ever 
anything so lovely ?’ He said : ‘ He is an" angel 
indeed !’ Then I remember that my sister went 
up, and, although mother shook her finger warn- 
ingly at her, she said, by way of apology, push- 
ing mother’s hand away gently, ‘ I can ’t help 
it ; I must and, stooping down, kissed his rosy 
lips. The kiss did not awaken him entirely, 


134 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


but he moved and turned his face away and 
sighed. Then I remember that mother leaned 
over, and, pressing her cheek against his, said 
soothingly: ‘Ah, my little darling, do not sigh; 
your mother’s here!’ This seemed to awaken 
him, and he turned his face outward again, and 
threw himself over on the bed, reaching out one 
arm, encircling his mother’s neck with it. Fear- 
ing she might waken him, she did not release 
his arm at once, but remained in that position, 
her face on the pillow close to his, his arm 
around her neck, while she, with one hand, 
reached under and clasped his remaining hand. 
Lest we should disturb him, father motioned us 
out into the cabin, and we left them. 

“ After an hour or more we returned, but 
the light had been turned low. Mother had re- 
tired, and out of consideration for her and the 
baby, with no noise, we crept softly into our 
beds, my sister occupying the berth under me, 
I the upper berth, and father occupying the 
berth over mother and the baby. I went to 
sleep ; how long I slept I do not know. When 
I awoke it was as I was going up into the 
air. Presently I felt myself coming down. An 
instant later I plunged into the waters of the 
Missouri. It seemed that I was going to the 
bottom despite my efforts to swim; but I came 
to the top and struck out vigorously, and for- 


THE COLONELS STORY. 


*3 5 


tunately found a large piece of the wreckage of 
the boat and knew I was safe. Up to this time 
there was dense darkness all about me ; but 
suddenly the flames shot up from the wreck 
and lighted the river brilliantly. Not ten feet 
from me my sister floated, holding tight to a 
huge plank. She was more dead than alive. 
Her bare arms lay across the plank, her fingers 
clasping the edge farthest away. Her head was 
thrown back to keep her mouth and nose above 
the water. Her eyes were closed, and a most 
agonizing expression of despair held her fea- 
tures fast in hard lines of hopeless endeavor. 
Her mass of hair floated behind her, and muddy 
water dripped from the ringlets about her fore- 
head. I pushed my piece of the wreck, which 
was large enough to hold several persons, over 
toward her, and, clinging to it with one arm, 
reached out the other and clasped her about 
the waist, and said gently, yet with a bounding 
heart : ‘ O, my darling sister, your brother has 
come to save you !’ She was so nearly uncon- 
scious that she did not reply, except to lean her 
head toward me and moan piteously. I cheered 
her all I could, and by my help she crawled on 
to the wreckage, but swooned away. At that 
instant what was left of the burning boat 
went down, and thick darkness encompassed us 
again. 


136 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

“Then I heard a sound that rings in my ears 
until this day. It was a baby’s voice crying, 
and calling out, “ Mamina ! papa ! mamma !’ I 
knew there was only one baby on that boat, 
and that baby was my brother. I strained my 
ears, kneeling on that raft by my sister to catch 
the sound of mother’s voice answering the 
cry of her darling. I could hear others talking, 
but not a voice answered baby’s cry. I did not 
speak. I could not. I tried to call to the dar- 
ling, but my throat was choked, and I could 
only sob and pray. For some time I heard 
the pitiful cry, ‘ Mamma, up ! Mamma, dark ! 
Mamma, up !’ That is the way our baby would 
call in the night if, by chance, the light should 
go out. He seemed to be floating with us, but 
on the opposite side of the river. After awhile 
he ceased to cry. When the first dawn of day 
came, I strained my eyes to find some sign of 
him, hoping to catch a glimpse of his curly head, 
but in vain. Just at sunrise we were picked up 
by a passing boat. Sister and I were kindly 
provided with clothes, for we had only our 
night-dresses, and were taken to St. Louis, where 
father had many friends, who vied with each 
other in caring for us. 

“The papers, for several days, contained ac- 
counts of the disaster and printed lists of the 
rescued. One day I saw a statement that a 


THE COLONELS STORY. 


137 


baby bad been rescued far down the river, and 
supposably was from the ill-fated steamer. It said 
the child was found securely lashed by strips of 
what appeared to be a lady’s night-robe, judging 
from the texture of the cloth and the bits of 
lace and embroidery with it. It said the child 
was found and was being cared for by a fisher- 
man, who had early gone to the river to take up 
his lines. My father’s friends left no effort 
untried to find that fisherman, but without 
success.” 

The colonel ceased speaking, and sat with 
bowed head. The little group had listened to 
the recital with breathless interest, and all sighed 
sadly when the colonel finished his story. 

“So we all have our sorrows,” he said, after 
awhile, lifting his hjsad and smiling on Theodore. 

“Colonel,” said Babbitt, “may I say some- 
thing?” 

“Certainly, Corporal, say on.” 

“These four of us, and some folks at home, 
have formed a little society to help find Theo- 
dore’s parents when we get home, and I thought, 
maybe, you w T ould like to join.” 

Babbitt hurried through this statement, and 
quit quite out of breath, scarcely knowing what 
he had said. 

“Why, yes, I believe I would,” said the 

colonel, with a show of hesitation in his manner. 

12 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


138 

“ But maybe the rest of the boys would have 
something to say to that,” he continued, looking 
around upon the group. 

“I am quite sure,” said George, “that there 
can be no objection on our part” 

“Indeed,” said Theodore, with embarrass- 
ment, “we would like to have you become one 
of our society ,^for maybe — ” and he paused a 
moment as if uncertain whether he should say 
what was on his mind or not, but finally con- 
tinued, “maybe we could help you find your 
brother.” 

“ Indeed,” said the colonel, brightening, “ that 
is a thought that had not occurred to me, and I 
am sure that I shall not hesitate to have my 
name enrolled as a member of your society.” 

“There are one or two things,” said Babbitt, 
“that each member of our society is required 
to observe secrecy about ; but as they are both 
things that perhaps you will never know, there 
is no reason why we should require you never 
to speak of them, Colonel.” 

“Well,” he laughed, “you certainly can not 
trust me to keep them if you never give them 
to me !” 

Babbitt was confused by this reply, but he 
gathered up his wits sufficiently to say : 

“It is not that we do not wish to trust you 
with the secrets, Colonel; but I believe we 


THE CO LONE HS STORY. 139 

had better not tell you now ; we may some time. 
It is only something about ourselves.” 

“Very well,” replied the colonel, “I shall not 
insist on knowing what could not be used by 
me ; and I am sure that I can trust you boys to 
keep my secret for me,” he continued, with a 
merry twinkle in his eye. 

“I see, Colonel,” said George, “that you are 
disposed to twit the boys ; but I assure you that 
it is a very small matter that constitutes the 
secret of this society. And, perhaps, you will 
understand better if I say, as you already know, 
however, that all societies have what are called 
degrees, the secrets of which are given up to 
members a little at a time.” 

“Very well, then, I suppose I shall consider 
myself a member of the society in the first de- 
gree, and shall wait patiently until I may be 
intrusted with its further secrets.” 

At this juncture in their conversation one 
of the captains called to make some inquiries 
of the colonel about certain orders that had been 
issued ; and the boys were told that they might 
return to their company, as the duty for which 
they had been summoned had been well done. 

When they were again snugly stowed away 
in their tents, George said he doubted whether 
they had done just the right thing in asking the 
colonel to become a member of their society, 


140 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

and hesitating to give him all the facts connected 
therewith. 

“It does not look just fair,” said Babbitt; 
“but you know it is different with him. Theo- 
dore, here, does not care so much about us boys 
knowing about that mark ; Jakey is not ashamed 
for us to know about his mother; but what is 
the use of going and telling everybody, and then 
telling them not to tell anybody else.” 

“I will tell you,” said George; “suppose we 
drop that part of our society, and say no more 
about it.” 

“That is a fact,” assented Babbitt; “that is 
what we ought to have done long ago. Who 
knows anything about Theodore’s mark except 
us boys ? Father and mother do n’t know ; Miss 
Laura and Mrs. Jacobus, neither of them knows ; 
so it is all right for the colonel, anyway. He be- 
longs to the degree that father and mother and 
the rest of them do.” 

“That is a happy thought,” said Theodore. 
“I will never be reluctant any more about any- 
body else joining if we are going to let this 
secret part drop right here.” 

“But suppose, some time,” suggested Jakey, 
“the colonel should ask us what the secret is — 
I don’t mean some time now — but some time 
by and by; at home, maybe?” 

“Well,” said Babbitt, “before long we will 


THE COLONELS STORY. 141 

tell him that there is no secret. We thought 
there was, but there is n’t.” 

“Don’t you suppose he will want to know, 
then, what we thought was a secret?” said 
Theodore. 

“No,” said Babbitt. “He is a man, and he 
has other things to think about; he isn’t con- 
cerned about that.” 

Now, the secret they hesitated about giving 
to the colonel was the discovery that Theodore’s 
back, between the shoulders, was disfigured by 
a patch of very black, stiff, and closely-growing 
hair. Babbitt and Jakey discovered this when 
the three were putting on their new uniforms, 
and Theodore had pledged the two to secrecy, 
and they, in turn, had pledged George. 



Chapter 

THEODORE’S THEORY. 

T HAT night there was firing on the pickets, 
and the regiment was hurriedly formed, and 
Captain Mooney’s company detailed to make a 
reconnoisance. No enemy was found, and they 
returned to camp, glad the colonel found them 
so prompt to respond to the call to arms. 

Not until they were crawling into their tent 
did Babbitt find out that Theodore had been 
on the quick march. He expressed surprise, 
and also fear lest his wounds would suffer on 
account of premature exertion on his part. 
Theodore silenced all objections by saying : 

“Didn’t you go, Babbitt? and didn’t Jakey, 
and did n’t George, and did n’t I know for cer- 
tain that the colonel would go? Do you sup- 
pose that anything could have tempted me to 
stay behind when you all were at the front?” 
And then, after a pause, in a lower tone, and 
with intenser feeling, he said: “There is some- 
thing in me that draws me out toward that 
142 


THEODORE'S THEORY. 


143 


colonel of ours. I want to be where he is ; and 
you may depend on it that as long as this service 
lasts I am not going to lose sight of him.” 

Then Sergeant Patton spoke up, saying: 

“I guess all the boys feel that way.” 

“Perhaps all the boys do like the colonel,” 
said Theodore; “but I am sure that not one of 
them can feel toward him as I do.” 

“You don’t mean anything about what he 
was telling us, do you?” said Babbitt. # 

“I don’t know,” said Theodore ; “I am afraid 
to believe it, and yet I want to.” After hesi- 
tating again for a few minutes, he and the rest 
of them having settled themselves down again 
under their blankets, he said : “ If you won’t 
laugh at me, I will tell you something.” 

“You may depend on it that we won’t laugh 
at you,” said George, “unless it is something 
awfully funny that you are going to tell.” 

“No, it isn’t funny,” said Theodore; “very 
far from it ; and yet you may think that my 
telling such a thing is funny, or, at least, unrea- 
sonable, and you may laugh me to scorn. 

“Now, it is simply this,” continued Theo- 
dore. “But pshaw, boys, I need not say it; but 
if I do say it, I want you to know that it is one 
of our secrets — for awhile, at any rate.” 

“ It ’s a go,” said Babbitt, “whatever you tell 
us we will keep — you know that.” 


I 44 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


“ Well, it is this — somehow I am afraid to 
tell it. I may be building castles in the air ; I 
may be indulging false hope ; but remember, I 
would not have you .speak of it for the world — 
not yet.” 

He ceased to speak, and the boys remained 
silent. Finally, summoning all his courage, he 
commenced ; and spoke rapidly, lest he should 
change his mind, and keep the precious secret 
to himself when he wanted to share it with his 
friends, and said : 

“Many and many a time have I seen at 
Jenkins’s house a heavy gold chain, with a locket 
attached — ” 

“Great Scott!” exclaimed George, raising 
himself on his hands and knees. 

Babbitt quickly turned over and sat upright, 
and, reaching out his hand, laid hold of the well 
shoulder of Theodore, and, shaking it violently, 
said : 

“You don’t mean it!” 

Jakey, the least impressible and the least 
demonstrative of all, and the least imaginative, 
but the most practical, perhaps, in many cases, 
said : 

“Why don’t you tell about that to the 
colonel?” 

If it had not been dark they would have 
seen a look of contempt and of indignation on 


THEODORE'S THEORY. 145 

Theodore’s face, while he blushed deeply as he 
said : 

“ Tell the colonel ! How could I ever prove 
what I should say? And how quickly he would 
guess that I was taking advantage of his confi- 
dence and trying to impose upon him — setting 
up a claim, which I could not support by any 
evidence except my own word, to kinship with 
him. No, sir; I would die first!” 

Theodore was sitting upright, and, as he said 
these words, he bowed his head and buried his 
face between his knees. George was the first 
to speak by exclaiming again: “Great Scott!” 
and that was the extent of his profanity; he 
never ventured more than that. 

Babbitt said : “ I intend to write home at 
once, and tell father about it.” 

“Hold on!” said Theodore, lifting his head. 
“What did you promise me before I told you 
this ?” 

“Well,” laughed Babbitt, “I remember now; 
but I had no idea you were going to tell us any- 
thing like this. Let me write, won’t you? 
Father will see about this.” 

“No, I can not,” Theodore said, earnestly. 
“ Besides, your father never could find out any- 
thing about it. You do n’t know Jenkins 
as I do.” 

“Great Scott!” said George, turning over 
13 


146 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

and lying down. “Two surprises in one night! 
It is more than I can stand.” 

“Of course,” said Jakey, who had been 
thinking while the rest of them were talking; 
“ there are lots of gold chains in the world, and 
lots of lockets. I suppose, more than likely, 
there are a hundred just like the one the colo- 
nel’s mother had.” 

“Yes; but,” said Babbitt, “what was old 
Jenkins doing with one? From all I can learn, 
he is n’t the kind of a man to buy gold chains 
and lockets.” 

“I don’t know,” said Theodore. “He has 
been a mystery to me ever since I have known 
him. It always seemed to me that he had 
something on his mind, as people say — some- 
thing that worried him. We did not always 
live where he is living now.” 

All four of them were silent and busily 
thinking; and at last George spoke up again 
and said : 

“Great Scott! Theodore, why did you make 
me promise I would not tell?” 

“ Because I did not want you to tell,” said 
Theodore. “What is there to tell when you 
come to look at it right square in the face ? 
What is there to tell except that I know a man 
that has a chain and locket ? Anybody could say 
that. Of course, I have my own thoughts.” 


THEODORE'S THEORY. 


H7 


“Certainly,” said Babbitt; “and we have 
ours. It seems to me as plain as day, that if 
you would only tell what you know, you may 
soon find out that the colonel is your brother, 
and you his.” 

“Great Scott!” said George, turning over 
again. “Have I got to carry this thing for a 
hundred days or more in my head, and not 
tell it?” 

“That’s about the size of it,” said Jakey, 
laughing, in spite of himself, at George’s great 
desire to rid himself of the secret. 

About the last thing that any of them heard 
before they dropped off to sleep, was a half- 
smothered exclamation on the part of Georges 
“Great Scott!” 


Chapter 

A MYSTERY. 

T HREE letters to the encampment for the 
Little Corporal’s mess were brought in one 
mail by the chaplain. (Babbitt was known as 
“ The Little Corporal,” and his mess was named 
that, too.) One was for Jakey, from Miss Laura. 
He read it slowly ; for, although the penmanship 
was of that kind which may be described as 
bold, even, and clear, he was not much accus- 
tomed to reading letters, and labored somewhat 
over this. 

Babbitt’s letter from his father had evidently 
been written after consultation with Miss Laura ; 
for it said but little about Mrs. Jacobus, but dwelt 
almost entirely with their trip to Farmer Jen- 
kins’s house, and other facts which they had 
learned concerning Theodore. He read rap- 
idly, and had completed his before Jakey had 
finished half of Miss Laura’s. 

“What’s the news?” he said. 

“I haven’t got through yet,” said Jakey, 
148 


A MYSTERY. 149 

continuing to read; “but there is lots of news 
as far as I have gone.” 

Babbitt could scarcely restrain himself ; for 
the contents of his letter had awakened unusual 
interest, and he longed for an opportunity to see 
if Jakey ’s contained anything in addition to 
what he had learned, or if it could not make 
clear some of the unexplained things in his 
father’s letter. 

George was busy with his, and did not notice 
the aside talk between Jakey and Babbitt. 
Theodore, however, had no letter to read, and 
he was unintentionally all ears to what the boys 
had to say. Noticing his attempt at unconcern, 
and his effort to appear engaged in some trifling 
work, fixing his knapsack straps and examining 
the buttons on his coat to see if they were still 
secure, Babbitt said, though he hesitated whether 
it was best to say anything just then : 

“You didn’t get any letter, Thee, but the 
most of my letter is about you. It is from 
father, and I will let you see it if you wish.” 

Theodore colored slightly, and said : 

“I would, of course, like to know if it con- 
cerns me ; but I would rather you would tell 
me instead of my reading the letter. Perhaps 
your father would not like that.” 

Jakey said, pausing in his reading: 

“My letter does not say much about Theo- 


150 THE COLON EVS CHARGE . 

dore, but it says a good deal about some- 
body else.” 

Just at that instant George spoke up, his 
face assuming a seriousness which it had not 
shown before, though he did not appear to be 
addressing the other boys, and said, as if speaking 
to himself : 

“That beats anything I ever heard of.” 

He continued to read ; and, finally, after he 
had finished the letter, and was folding it to 
replace it in the envelope, he said : 

“I can not account for it!” 

The boys did not seem interested in this 
volunteered information, and he was not much 
concerned that they were so indifferent to what he 
had said. Seemingly preoccupied with thoughts 
of the contents of his letter, as he still held it 
in his hand, he crawled out of the tent, and 
leisurely walked off toward a shady nook, and 
sat down under a tree to re-read the missive. 
Really the boys were glad that he had felt dis- 
posed to go off by himself ; for, while he was 
one of their little circle, he could not yet feel 
the real interest in the secret of Theodore’s par- 
entage that the others felt, and they naturally 
were more or less embarrassed and reserved in 
his presence. 

Jakey seemed to labor so over his letter, 
though evidently much engaged with its con- 


A MYSTERY. 


tents, that Babbitt suggested that unless it had 
something very personal he might read it aloud ; 
“ for you know,” he said, “ one of the first 
things that we thought about in our little society 
was writing letters and keeping each other 
posted on the things at home, and keeping them 
posted on the things that happened in camp.” 

Jakey handed the letter over to him gladly, 
and said : 

“I wish you would, Babbitt. I ain’t much on 
reading anything, especially letters. Maybe I 
would understand it if you would read it to me.” 

Miss Laura’s letter commenced in a way 
which was calculated to stir the emotions of any 
one except Jakey Jacobus. It said, “My Dear 
Jakey,” but he had not noticed this manner of 
addressing him ; it did not seem to him that that 
meant anything. But it was the first thing that 
attracted Babbitt’s quick eye ; so, after reading 
that much aloud, he looked at Jakey, and smil- 
ingly said : 

“ Miss Laura has taken you in as one of her 
own boys, I see.” 

“Why, how is that?” said Jakey. 

“Why, you see she calls you ‘my dear 
Jakey.’ ” 

But he was too unsentimental to be at all 
moved by this allusion ; so Babbitt was obliged 
to proceed with the reading of the contents of 


!52 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


the letter to find something of more intense in- 
terest than the manner of addressing Jakey. 
The letter proved to be full of facts that, while not 
unexplainable, were such as to stir the thought 
of the dullest mind in an attempt to reach the 
conclusion toward which these facts pointed. 
Miss Laura said : 

“I am writing to you to-day because your 
mother is not able to write. Now do not be 
frightened at that, Jakey ; she is in good hands 
and well cared for, for she is at Babbitt’s home, 
and Mr. and Mrs. Carl are giving her all the 
attention she requires ; and I find it convenient 
to call in there about once a day, and sometimes 
oftener. I do n’t know whether you noticed it — 
but the rest of us did — when you went away from 
home your mother was not in very good health ; 
and the excitement of your going, and some 
other things which have happened, have tended 
to make her nervous. Mr. Carl has said he 
would write to Babbitt and tell him about our 
trip out into the country to see Farmer Jenkins, 
so I need not tell you that. When we came 
home your mother was quite ill, had a high fever, 
and at times did not know what she was saying. 
She is better now ; we hope she will get well.” 

The “hope” in this letter was underscored, 
and to Babbitt meant more than the words 
themselves; but Jakey had not noticed that 


A MYSTERY. 


I 53 


mark when he read the letter, and was now giv- 
ing his attention wholly to the statement of facts 
as recorded by Miss Laura. 

“There is something curious about what 
your mother says that I want to tell you of; 
and maybe you can explain it to us, for we 
don’t understand it. Now, don’t be frightened, 
Jakey. I would not have written to you at all 
until your mother was better, only that I 
thought it would be best for me to write now, 
and may be you could tell something more 
about the things that she talks of. Since the 
day that we got home from Jenkins’s, she seems 
to have forgotten almost everything that has 
happened in her life except (now, I know you 
will be glad to read this) your father and your- 
self. We tried to have her recall some of the 
things that occurred on the way down to Jen- 
kins’s and on the way back, but she does not 
remember anything. We have tried to have her 
think of things which happened here in our town 
since the war commenced, but she always shakes 
her head and says: ‘I can’t remember.’ The 
doctor says this is not strange, and you need not 
be alarmed about that, for oftentimes people’s 
memories get to be very poor as they grow 
older. But there is one thing that your mother 
talks about whenever any one can be found to 
listen to her; that is, whenever Mr. or Mrs. 


*54 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


Carl or myself, for we are about the only ones 
that see her; she does not care to see other 
people ; and, although they call and ask about her, 
they very seldom go to her bedside. The other 
day, while I was sitting by her, she turned her 
face toward me, and, with a very happy counte- 
nance, began to tell me about — now I know you 
will be startled when I write the word that she 
said — she began to tell me about ‘ Theodore ’ — 
not your friend Theodore, perhaps, but some 
little boy that she knew. As far as I could un- 
derstand her, there was a very handsome and 
smart and lovable diild that either got lost, or 
was killed accidentally, or died suddenly, I can 
not tell which, that she knows about. She in- 
sists that his name is Theodore. We tried to 
make her see that she has got the wrong name ; 
that she has heard us talk about Theodore, and 
that some way she has forgotten the little boy’s 
name, and has taken up this name we have 
talked so much about ; but she always shakes 
her head and says ‘No,’ and insists on having it 
‘Theodore.’ When you come home I may be 
able to tell you some little facts about what 
your mother says, that I can not very well write 
or make you understand by writing; but what 
I want to know now is whether you ever had a 
brother by the name of Theodore, and if you had, 
if he died young, or if anything happened to 


A MYSTERY . 


*55 


him that you ever heard your mother tell about. 
She insists, most of the time, although she does 
not say clearly, that this beautiful child was car- 
ried away, and she has spoken often of having 
led him about by the hand, or of having rocked 
him to sleep in her arms, and of having seen 
him in different places or situations ; and yet, 
whenever we ask her if this child that she talks 
about was her child, she does not seem to know 
what we mean, or if she does know, does not 
care to answer.” 

While Babbitt was reading these words, an 
occasional glance from the paper toward Jakey 
showed him that the poor boy’s heart was throb- 
bing under intensest emotion, but that he had al- 
most perfect control of himself, and at no time 
would give vent to his feelings ; but, despite his 
efforts, once in awhile a tear would roll down 
his cheek and drop off on the blanket on which 
he was lying, face downward, supporting him- 
self on his elbows. 

As might be supposed, no one was more in- 
terested in the letter than Theodore. He was 
strangely stirred, and at times felt keenest dis- 
appointment when there was a hint that the 
child of which Mrs. Jacobus talked was a The- 
odore, and that that Theodore was himself. 
For some reason, he did not wish it to be 
that way. 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE . 




Miss Laura concluded her letter by adding 
a few more lines : 

“ My father has told me, Jakey, to write that 
you need not worry about your mother. I feel 
as if I ought to say, having said so much, that 
perhaps she will not get well.” 

As Babbitt read these words his voice fal- 
tered, and he found it impossible to see the 
words which followed ; for his own eyes were 
dim with tears. He was far less composed than 
Jakey. He simply dropped his head across his 
folded arms and buried his face for a moment 
in the blanket, and then quickly lifted himself 
and, with set features, listened to hear the con- 
clusion of Miss Laura’s letter. As soon as he 
could, Babbitt finished the reading: 

“ But whether she gets well or not — we hope 
she wilP ’ — (underscored, every word of it) “ father 
says, ‘Tell Jakey, there is a place for him at our 
home.’ ” And then, as if she would, in some 
way, dispel the clouds she supposed her words 
had caused to gather around Jakey’s life, she 
said, in a lighter strain: “You know we have 
lots of cows to milk, plenty of horses to feed 
and to drive, lots of errands to do at town, and 
a great many things to do on the farm, and it is 
a wonder to me that father has not had some 
one to come and live with us before. At any 
rate, we are going to expect you to be back. 


A MYSTERY. 1 57 

We are going to look to you to be our boy. 
Write to me when you can. 

“ Faithfully yours, Laura.” 

As Babbitt folded this letter, and tucked it 
away in the envelope and passed it back to 
Jakey, he said: 

“ That is a mixture of sad and glad news, 
such as I hope will not come every day ; for it 
breaks me right up and then he laughed to 
hide his feelings. 

Theodore was silent. 

“Now I must read you father’s,” said Babbitt, 
picking that letter up ; and he read steadily the 
long letter which his father had written to him. 
The first part of it was taken up in giving an 
account of the trip to Jenkins’s house, and, as 
nearly as possible, a detailed account of all the 
conversation which occurred there, as well as 
reference to the part which Mrs. Jacobus had 
taken, and its effect upon the old farmer. He 
briefly mentioned the fact that Mrs. Jacobus 
was ill at their house, but was well taken care 
of, and that they hoped she would get well. He 
then said : 

“ I was determined to find out all that Jen- 
kins knew about Theodore, if it were possible 
to extort the information from him by threats or 
reward; and so this week, in company with an 
officer, whom I took along simply for show, as 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


158 

he had no papers to serve, hoping, if I failed 
in trying to persuade Jenkins to reveal what 
he knew of Theodore’s ancestry, to call in the 
assistance of the officer, and by intimidation — 
for I think such a course would have been jus- 
tifiable under the circumstances — compel him to 
tell us what we wanted to know. 

“Lest I excite your curiosity unduly, and to 
save myself the trouble of writing a great many 
unimportant details, I must say right here that 
I failed to get what I went for; and this is why: 
The day before we made our visit, Mr. Jenkins 
had gone out into the timber, near his house, for 
the purpose of felling a tree to cut it up into 
wood. He selected the tree that he desired to 
have made into wood, and went to work on it 
with his ax, and had succeeded in chopping it 
off so that it started on its downward course ; 
but when about one-third of the way down, it 
lodged against a smaller tree, and it seemed 
necessary, in order to get it to the ground, that 
the smaller tree should be cut. While he was 
cutting the smaller tree, the blows of his ax had 
shaken the other tree loose from the slight hold 
it had, and before he was aware that he was in 
danger, it fell, and one of the large limbs struck 
him on the head and shoulders and he was pin- 
ioned to the ground. This was early in the 
morning. When dinner was ready, his wife 


A MYSTERY. 


I 59 


waited, but he did not come. She did not 
think strange of this, however, because he often 
would go away without leaving word when he 
would be back ; and it was her habit to wait 
dinner until he should come, so she did not 
even go to look for him. When he had not 
come back by supper-time, she became thor- 
oughly alarmed, and concluded to go in the di- 
rection she had seen him go that morning, and 
where she had heard him cutting, and make in- 
vestigation. She did not see him, and, after 
wandering over the timber-lot for some time 
without discovering him, she was compelled to 
ask her neighbors for help. A search was insti- 
tuted, and late at night, by the aid of torches 
and lanterns, they found him pinioned to the 
ground and unconscious, though yet alive. In 
this condition he was brought to his home, and 
that is the way we found him when we reached 
his home. 

“ Of course, he could tell us nothing, for he 
knew nothing, recognizing no one, not even his 
wife ; and the physician said that his condition 
was exceedingly critical — the probabilities of 
his recovery very slight. We were about to 
take our leave without having made known to 
Mrs. Jenkins our errand, when she inquired if 
she could be of any service, or if we had any 
word to leave for her husband. She is quite an 


i6o 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


intelligent lady, but Has about her evidences of 
having a long time been subjected to the dicta- 
tion and rule of a superior force. I felt that it 
would only be right that some statement should 
be made as to what we sought, but was surprised, 
as well as delighted, when she manifested great 
concern and said: ‘Well, I don’t care to tell you 
what I know until I can see what the result of 
Mr. Jenkins’s hurt is. I can ’t endure the strain 
any longer on account of it.’ She left us in 
their little sitting-room, and was gone a few 
minutes, when she returned, bearing a locket 
and golden chain in her hand. ‘ This,’ she said, 
‘belongs to the boy. It came to us with him. 
He may have seen it, but he does not know it 
is his. My husband has insisted on our keep- 
ing it ; but I feel that if you are his friend, and 
are so much concerned about him as to come to 
our house now the second time — for Mr. Jen- 
kins told me about your being here before — I 
would rather that you would have this trinket 
than that I should keep it. It opens, and in- 
side is a picture. I don’t know that the boy 
has ever seen the picture. I am very certain 
that he never did. I do not know whose pic- 
ture it is.’ As she said this, she handed the 
locket and chain to me, and I have it now in 
my possession. I shall keep it until Theodore 
returns, unless he desires that I should send it 


A MYSTERY. 


l6r 


to him. I do not think, however, that that 
would be best; for he possibly might have it 
stolen from him or might lose it. I shall wait 
a week or ten days, and then go down to Jen- 
kins’s again. Perhaps by that time he will 
have so far recovered as to be able to tell me what 
he knows. I hope that he will not be offended 
by what his wife has done ; for I fear for her 
sake if he should be. I judged, by the way she 
spoke, that she herself had given up all hope of 
his recovering from his hurt, and felt safe in 
parting with the trinket, which, for some reason 
I do not understand, he had kept for so many 
years.” 

There were some other matters in the letter 
of minor importance, about home affairs, which 
Babbitt did not read. 

“ There is something,” he said again, “ that 
needs to be explained in these two letters. It 
would seem, from what Theodore says, and 
what Mrs. Jenkins says, and what our colonel 
has told us, that we may have a clew to the se- 
cret of Theodore’s parentage; and yet,” Babbitt 
said, meditatively, “Mrs. Jacobus seems to know 
something which does not agree with that story. 
You remember father says that she told Jenkins 
that she knew who Theodore was, and that was 
before she had lost her memory. Miss Laura says 
that she is constantly talking about some boy — 
14 


1 62 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

bright and happy boy — who certainly, from 
what she says, must have been old enough to 
run around, to play, and perhaps to go alone, 
and she calls him Theodore. Now, the boy that 
Jenkins knew and the boy that Mrs. Jacobus 
knew are apparently the same, and yet Theo- 
dore can not remember of any person that would 
answer to Mrs. Jacobus — can you, Thee?” 

Theodore shook his head, but said nothing. 

“ Then,” continued Babbitt, “Colonel Smith 
told us about the locket and chain, and Mrs. 
Jenkins says that this locket and chain came to 
her place with this boy. That would seem to 
show that he is — ” Babbitt did not finish the 
sentence. 

“I know what you mean,” said Theodore; 
“ but that can not be and again he shook his 
head sadly. 

At that instant George returned, and seemed 
in much better spirits than when he went away 
from the tent. 

“Well, boys,” he said, “I suppose that you 
all got good news from home.” 

“ Yes,” said Babbitt, quietly. 

“Well, so did I,” he said finally; “most of 
it at any rate, was good — all of it, as far as I 
am concerned, was good. But there was an old 
codger down by our town that people said was 
a perfect terror. I do n’t know much about 


A MYSTERY. 


163 

him. I know he used to come to town always 
by himself, and would get into an argument if 
he could, on the street-corners or in some store, 
and he always argued that there was no God, no 
devil, no heaven, and no hell, and that a man 
would live always if he only thought so — there 
was no use in any one just lying down to die. 
I used to wonder, after hearing him talk, how 
he would die. Well, in a letter to-day, they say 
he is dead, and that he really killed himself ; 
that is the report at our town. I do n’t under- 
stand how it could be, though.” 

Without any apparent interest in the matter, 
except to give respectful attention to the news 
which George had given them, Babbitt said : 

“Who was that old man you are talking 
about?” 

“They said his name was Jenkins,” an- 
swered George. 

At this Theodore quickly asked : “ Where 
did he live, this man you are talking about?” 

“Well, my home,” said George, “is in Oco- 
nee, and he lived about ten miles from there.” 

“ It must be the same, then,” said Theo- 
dore, earnestly. 

“ What,” said Babbitt, “ the same as the 
man you lived with?” 

“ Yes, for we lived about ten miles from 
Oconee.” 


164 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

“ I do not remember of having seen you,” 
said George, “ with the old man at any time. 
Did you live with him all the time?” 

“ Yes ; but I never went to town with him. 
He generally went alone. Sometimes he sent 
me ; but we never went together.” 

“ That report as to his having committed su- 
icide,” said Babbitt, “is certainly wrong.” 

“Well, what do you know about it?” asked 
George. 

“ I think I know a great deal.” He then 
took his father’s letter from his pocket, and read 
to George such passages as referred to Jenkins’s 
accident. 

When he had concluded they were all agreed 
that the information which came from George’s 
letter was unreliable — perhaps only an exagge- 
rated rumor, arising from the peculiar manner 
of the Jenkins accident. 

“ But I wonder, now,” said Theodore, “ which 
we can rely on — the report that he is dead or 
that he is only seriously injured? What is the 
date of your letter, George?” 

By comparison of dates, they found that 
the letters were written the same day; but as 
George’s informant lived nearer the Jenkins 
home, they concluded that that report was the 
latest. 

“Then,” said Theodore, with the slightest 


A MYSTERY. 


i6 5 

show of sadness in his manner, “ Mr. Jenkins is 
dead and he fell to meditating, the rest of 
them remaining silent, until he said: “With all 
his meanness, there were some good things about 
him.” 

After a few minutes of further silence, in 
which they all seemed to be going over in mind 
the facts related by the several letters, George 
said, as though it had just occurred to him: 

“ Did Jenkins persuade you to believe as he 
does? Do you think there is no God?” 

Theodore colored and hesitated a moment, 
and before he could reply, Babbitt interposed, 
and said kindly : 

“That is one thing we have not explained to 
you, George, and if you would not feel offended, 
I wish you would drop that subject now for 
awhile.” 

“O!” said George, with elevated eye-brows; 
and nothing more was said by either of them — 
not that the subject had lost its interest, but 
somehow they were all under the impression 
that silence was best at that time. Besides this, 
opportunity for further conversation with Theo- 
dore was prevented by the colonel’s orderly 
stopping in front of the tent and telling him 
the colonel desired to see him. 

When he returned, the rest of the mess were 
just getting ready for supper, and, of course, the 


i66 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


business in hand at that time was attended to 
without any ceremony, Theodore remarking, by 
way of explanation of his call to the colonel’s 
head-quarters, that he had been offered a place 
as clerk in the Commissary Department, as the 
colonel supposed it would be easier on him than 
doing the ordinary duty, considering the hurts 
which he had received. 

“Of course, you will go,” said Babbitt; “and 
I am glad that you will have such an easy 
place.” 

“Of course I will not go,” said Theodore; 
“ and if I did not know you so well, I would 
say it was unkind for you to think I would go.” 

“Well, I don’t know why you shouldn’t,” 
said George. “You would have nothing but a 
clerk’s work to do — no standing guard, no going 
on picket, no daily drills, no roughing it with 
us, no anything, except just keeping the books 
straight.” 

“And that is just the reason why I will not 
go,” said Theodore, “ unless the colonel orders 
me to, and I do not think he will.” 

“What is the reason?” asked George. 

“Just what you have said. There will be no 
picket duty, no guard duty, no drill, no bunking 
with you boys, and I am not going!” 

The rest of them could but feel compli- 
mented by this declaration of Theodore, but did 


A MYSTERY. 


167 


not know in what way they had best answer 
him ; so he said, as a clincher to his statement 
that he would not go: “Besides that, what do I 
know about keeping books? I never went to 
school a day in my life !” 

“Well, come,” said Babbitt, who had seen 
that the tin plates were properly placed on the 
rough-board table which had been constructed 
that day. “It is my time to act as waiter; so 
get your places, and we will have our supper 
and attend to the rest of the things afterward.” 



Chapter £V. 


LIGHT IN DARK PLACES. 

R. CARL did not wait many days before 



he made his promised third trip to Jen- 
kins’s house. His only companion this time was 
Miss Laura. 

Arriving at the place, they were greeted at 
the door by Mrs. Jenkins, and knew at once, by 
her attire and her manner, that her fears had 
been realized, and that Mr. Jenkins was dead. 
She at once recognized Mr. Carl, and seemed 
glad that he had come, and greeted Miss Laura 
with a smile of welcome. She was entirely alone, 
and after showing the visitors seats, took one 
herself, and with downcast eyes awaited their 
pleasure in making known the object of their call. 

“I suppose, Mrs. Jenkins,” said Mr. Carl, 
‘‘that the worst is over, and that your husband 
is dead.” 

“Yes,” she said, nervously toying with her 
hands. 

“When, may I ask,” Mr. Carl said, after 
a pause of a moment or two, “did he die?” 


1 68 


LIGHT IN DARK PLACES . 


169 


“The day after you were here, sir.” 

“You must, indeed, be very lonely without 
him,” suggested Miss Laura in low tones, in a 
manner that was sincerely compassionate. 

“Yes,” she said, “I am.” 

“You know, Mrs. Jenkins,” said Mr. Carl, 
“that you have our sincerest sympathy; and if 
it were in our power to do anything for you, we 
should be glad.” 

“Thank you,” she said, “there is nothing 
that I need unless — ” She paused, seemingly 
unable to proceed on account of her emotion. 

“I hope that you will not hesitate to tell us 
whatever is on your mind, or to make known to 
us any wish that you may have, for I am sure you 
may depend upon its as your friends,” said Mr. 
Carl, in such earnestness, and so apparent 
sincerity, that Mrs. Jenkins was encouraged, 
and said : 

“O sir, that is just what I was going to say ; 
I need nothing unless it is a friend.” 

“ If you only knew us,” said Miss Laura, 
“I am sure you would be willing to trust us 
as your friends ; but as we are entire strangers, 
I can understand how you do not feel inclined 
to consider us as friends.” 

“Let me say,” said Mr. Carl, “that you may 
have a Friend who can and will abide with you 
forever.” 


170 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


Mrs. Jenkins shook her head sadly. After a 
silence that almost became painful, Mr. Carl 
finally said : 

“We had hoped to find Mr. Jenkins alive and 
able to talk. You can not fail to understand 
why we are here to-day. Is our coming to be 
in vain ? Can you tell us anything of Theo- 
dore, who his parents are, if living, and where 
they are now?” 

Mrs. Jenkins had heroically subdued her 
emotion, and lifted her face, which was now 
lighted by a faint smile, and said : 

“Indeed, sir, I can now tell you. It is not 
right for me to say so, and I do not w T ant to be 
untrue to one who was always true to me ; but 
I am glad that I can tell, and that is what I 
could not do while Mr. Jenkins lived.” 

Greatly encouraged by this, Mr. Carl said, 
eagerly : 

“But will you tell us? Can you explain all 
of it to us?” 

“O, do!” said Miss Laura. “I am willing to 
give you almost anything that I have if you will 
but tell us what you know about this young 
man.” 

“I do not know very much,” Mrs. Jenkins 
said. “I know some things. I will tell you all 
I know” — hesitating a moment — “and you can 
use what I tell you as you please.” 


LIGHT IN DARK PLACES. 1 7 1 

She was evidently embarrassed and some- 
what confused, so Mr. Carl said : 

“Mrs. Jenkins, do not hurry yourself. Com- 
mence at the beginning, and tell us, as far as you 
can remember, all that you know ; and if you do 
not care, as you talk I will just jot down what 
you say.” 

She raised a frightened face to Mr. Carl as 
he said these words, and exclaimed : 

“O, do not do that! Can they not punish 
me for it? He always said they could. You 
will not tell the officers, will you ? God knows 
I never meant it to be so. I know I loved that 
boy as my own child. You won’t make me 
trouble about this, will you?” she said, plead- 
ingly. “I never wanted Theodore to go away.” 

“Please be quiet, Mrs. Jenkins,” said Mr. 
Carl, soothingly ; “you need not fear us. I pledge 
you now that if anything you may tell me shall 
reflect upon you or render you liable to the law, 
I will do what I can to shield you from any of 
its penalties. What we want most of all is to 
clear up this mystery on Theodore’s account.” 

“Well,” she said, “I believe I can trust you. 
Maybe you can understand when I tell you, but 
Mr. Jenkins always said that if I told anything 
that he and I would both have to suffer for it.” 

Anxious to get at the facts which Mrs. Jen- 
kins- seemed to have in her possession, Mr. Carl 


172 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


again spoke to her soothingly, and again pledged 
himself to shield her in every way possible. So, 
partly in her own way, and partly in answer to 
questions asked by Mr. Carl and Miss Laura, 
Mrs. Jenkins gave them this account : 

“I think it was about twenty years ago — 
maybe not so long as that ; I guess not 
more than fifteen years ago — that Mr. Jenkins 
concluded that we could find a home out West. 
Perhaps, he said, we would go on west until we 
should come to California — but, anyhow, we 
started west. There were only five of us in the 
party. There were two wagons. Mr. Jenkins 
and I had one of the wagons ; the other wagon 
belonged to us, but there was a man wanted to go 
when we did, so Mr. Jenkins got him to drive 
his other wagon. 

“We had got a great way out West, and had 
camped one night in the woods by the side of a 
great river. We were having a jolly time. 
Nothing had happened to disturb us in our jour- 
ney, and we enjoyed going out there in that way, 
and were all counting on the time when we 
should have a nice home of our own. We were 
not poor people, either. We had good teams and 
good wagons, and Mr. Jenkins had plenty of 
money. We did n’t want for anything — only 
one thing, and we could not buy that with 
money — at least, we never thought we could. 


LIGHT IN DARK PLACES . 1 73 

There were just two of us. The other man had 
a little boy. He was a pretty baby — he was not 
a baby, either; he was four or five years old. 
He was always with his father, and Mr. Jenkins 
said that he would just give all he had if we had 
a little boy like that. 

“We had got up one morning, and were just 
getting our breakfast by the camp-fire, the little 
boy of our friends playing around and laughing 
and talking, and making us all laugh at his ’cute 
ways, making us all love him, when there came 
along the road near which we were camped a 
man, who carried a big basket of fish on one 
arm, and in the other a little baby boy. When 
he saw us he came to where we were, and said : 
‘Maybe you women could kind of dress this 
thing up a little.’ We took the baby, and asked 
him where on earth he got it. He said that he 
went down to the river to take up his lines, and 
he saw this baby floating by on a piece of the 
wreck of some boat, he guessed — it looked like 
that. The minute Mr. Jenkins saw it, and 
heard what the man said, he declared that he 
must have that baby for his own ; so he said to 
the man : ‘ Partner, I guess you don’t care nothin’ 
for that youngster.’ The fisherman saw how 
anxious Mr. Jenkins was to get that baby, so he 
kind of let on that he wanted it himself. He said : 
‘I ’low I can take it home and make a right 


174 THE colonels charge . 

smart man out of it.’ But he was only fooling, 
I know, for lie didn’t seem as if he cared. So, 
after we talked about it, and I and the other 
woman told him that the baby would die unless 
it got some warm clothes and something to eat 
right away, and he lived so far away, that he 
had better let us have it. He said if we would 
give, him the chain which was around the baby’s 
neck that we could keep the baby ; that he 
did n’t care anything for it. Mr. Jenkins said : 
‘No, I will pay you for the chain and all ; I want 
it just as you found him ; I want it all.’ So 
the man asked him what he would give for the 
chain and the locket. Mr. Jenkins said: ‘What 
will you take?’ Then the fisherman looked at 
it awhile and said he guessed it was brass, any- 
way, and he allowed he would take five dollars 
for it. Quicker than you could say the word 
Mr. Jenkins pulled out his leather pocket-book 
and gave him the five dollars, and then bought a 
great mess of fish of him besides ; and the man 
went away, and we took the baby. And before 
we left there we fitted some clothes, and made 
it comfortable, and it went to sleep. Then we 
hitched up our teams and started on our way.” 

Mrs. Jenkins stopped. They waited for her 
to continue the story, but she seemed to have 
told all that she knew. Finally Mr. Carl said: 

“And is that all, Mrs. Jenkins?” 


LIGHT IN DARK PLACES. 175 

She said: “I thought you knew the rest; 
the locket I gave you the other day. I don’t 
know where Theodore is, do you ? I would like 
it if you would tell me.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Carl, “we know where he 
is ; he is in the army.” 

Again she lifted her face, pale with fright, 
and exclaimed : 

“In the army — to be killed!” She wrung 
her hands in silent grief for a moment, and said : 

“O, I hoped when Mr. Jenkins was dead that 
he would come back. O, I loved him so !” 

“ He may come back,” said Mr. Carl. “ Every- 
body who goes into the army does not get 
killed. My boy is with him ; I expect him to 
come back.” 

“And will he come and stay with me?” she 
said, earnestly. 

“I can’t tell,” Mr. Carl said. “We will 
write to him and tell him all the particulars ; 
then he can do as he pleases.” 

“Did you never tell him,” asked Miss L-aura, 
“how you happened to get him? You did tell 
him he was not your child, did you not, after he 
got big enough to understand ?” 

“Yes, we told him that he was not our child ; 
but Mr. Jenkins would not let me tell him any- 
thing about where he came from, or who he 
was, or how he got him.” 


176 THE COLONELS CHARGE . 

“Did Mr. Jenkins like him as you seem to?” 
Mr. Carl asked. 

Mrs. Jenkins shook her head sadly, and con- 
tinued : “ No ; as soon as the child got a little 
acquainted with us, he seemed to have a dislike 
for Mr. Jenkins, although my husband did ev- 
erything he could, for a long time, to make the 
child like him. He had set his heart on having 
a boy like the other man’s boy, that would be 
glad to go with him every place, was always 
climbing up on his lap when he came back after 
being away, and hanging around him and mak- 
ing sport with him ; so that when the baby 
would not have anything to do with him, and 
was always clinging about my neck and com- 
ing to me when he wanted anything, my hus- 
band, for a time, was sorry, and afterward got 
angry; and the longer Theodore lived with us 
the more he seemed to hate him. That is, my 
husband disliked him ; though, when Theodore 
got to be a bigger boy, he always did whatever 
Mr. Jenkins told him to do, and made it just as 
pleasant as he could ; but there seemed to be a 
kind of a hate because the boy had not liked 
him when he was little ; and because he was dis- 
appointed with him he would not let him go 
away, but he set him to tasks that were hard. 
Just because he did not like him, he made him 
read — made him read everything we had in the 


LIGHT IN DARK FLACKS. 177 

liouse. We never had many papers, but Mr. 
Jenkins always had a lot of books, and he would 
make the boy read them aloud to him, and make 
him talk with him about them. But I know — 0 
I am sure,” said Mrs. Jenkins earnestly — “that 
Theodore loves me ! Of course, toward the last, 
I did not dare to let my husband see how much 
I thought of him. It would only have made 
him treat the boy worse. But I wish he would 
come back!” 

“ Mrs. Jenkins, there is one question I would 
like to ask you,” said Miss Laura. “ Did you 
ever know a lady by the name of Jacobus?” 

As these words were uttered, Mrs. Jenkins 
gave a little scream, and sank back in her chair 
as if she had fainted. Miss Laura sprang to 
her assistance, and, putting one arm around 
her, took one of her hands in hers, and said 
gently : 

“Do not be alarmed, Mrs. Jenkins. Tell us 
whatever you know. If you want us to, we 
will keep your secret, if you have one.” 

“I ought not to!” she said; “I ought not 
to! I never have; and yet it must be told or I 
will die!” 

Miss Laura took the chair that Mr. Carl had 
brought to her, and, sitting down at Mrs. Jen- 
kins’s side, held her hands and pillowed her head 
on her own shoulder, while Mrs. Jenkins said: 


i7« 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE . 


“Mrs. Jacobus and her husband were the 
man and woman that were in the other wagon.” 

“And did they know of your finding this 
baby ?” 

“Yes, yes!” she said. 

“And did they go with you on out West?” 
asked Mr. Carl. 

“For awhile we were together; but they 
left us.” 

“And you have not seen them since?” asked 
Miss Laura. 

“No, no; I didn’t know they were anywhere 
near, nor did Mr. Jenkins. Have they been 
close to us?” 

“Yes,” Mr. Carl said. “They have lived 
several years in the same town we live in, 
about twenty-five miles from here.” 

“And we didn’t know it,” said Mrs. Jenkins. 
After a few moments’ pause she said: “Well, it 
can not be any worse than it is, and I am sure I 
shall feel better if I can tell you.” 

“ Let us indeed be your friends, Mrs. Jen- 
kins,” Mr. Carl said. “ I know you must be 
lonely. Your life must have been saddened, 
and if you can trust us, let us know all, and we 
will help you.” 

“There is not much to tell,” she said, sadly — 
“ not much — but it has been a heavy load for 
me for years. Mr. Jacobus and his wife and 


LIGHT IN DARK PLACES. 


179 


their little boy were our best friends. Mr. Jen- 
kins loved their little boy as he would love his 
own, and he thought that he could raise Theodore 
to love him as Mr. Jacobus’s little boy loved him. 
Even while we were traveling westward, it was 
hard to tell sometimes which little Theodore 
loved most, his own papa or Mr. Jenkins, for he 
would go to one as quickly as to the other.” 

“What!” said Miss Eaura. “What was his 
name?” 

“Theodore,” said Mrs. Jenkins. “Theodore 
Jacobus.” 

“And that is why you called your little boy 
Theodore?” 

“ That is what Mr. Jenkins wanted him 
called; and as he didn’t want him called by 
our name, for he was not our little boy, he told 
him, after he had got old enough to remember, 
that his other name was Tompkins. That was 
just made up; we didn’t know his real name.” 

“Well, go on,” said Mr. Carl. “What about 
Mrs. Jacobus?” 

“O, sir,” Mrs. Jenkins said, “it is bad 
enough. Do you know Mrs. Jacobus? Have 
you seen her, and is she yet alive?” 

“Yes,” Mr. Carl said, “she is alive. We 
know her. She has a nice boy of her own. 
He is in the army too, with my son and with 
Theodore.” 


180 THE COLONELS CHARGE , 

After a few minutes’ silence, Mrs. Jenkins 
said : 

“My husband was a very hot-headed man. 
He was easily angered, and when he was angry 
he acted like one crazed, and scarcely knew 
what he was doing for the moment. One day 
he and Mr. Jacobus got into a quarrel about 
something — some little thing, I do n’t know 
what — but it all passed away, and we thought 
that they were as good friends as ever; but 
after that, whenever Mr. Jacobus would do any- 
thing Mr. Jenkins did n’t like, he would quarrel 
with him about it. The poor man and his wife 
would have left us, but they could not. It was 
our team they were driving and our wagon, and 
they had to go with us. We were out on the 
plains, just us five, one evening while we were 
getting supper. Mr. Jacobus and his boy were 
at their wagon. My husband had been off see- 
ing about something, when he came back, and, 
taking up his gun, said that he would go off ou 
the plains — perhaps he could find some game. 
As he started away, Mr. Jacobus said some- 
thing to him which I did n’t hear, and my hus- 
band replied in a low tone, but in such a way 
that I knew he was very angry. He started off 
rapidly, his gun on his shoulder, and had gone 
only a little distance, when he turned about and 
said, in a loud voice: ‘Jacobus, this thing must 


LIGHT IN DARK PLACES. 1 8 1 

be stopped right here. If you ever speak to me 
again about anything, I will let daylight through 
you as sure as you live!’ Mr. Jacobus stepped 
out from behind his wagon, and said — not an- 
grily, but with determination: ‘Mr. Jenkins, I 
am in your power now, but I will not always 
be.’ Instantly my husband brought his gun to 
his shoulder and took deliberate aim at Mr. Ja- 
cobus, and the next instant fired. I jumped to 
my feet, and Mrs. Jacobus, who was near me at 
the fire, ran toward the wagon, where her hus- 
band was, and I after her, both of us too badly 
frightened to scream, expecting, both of us, to 
find Mr. Jacobus lying dead; but, O my! he 
was standing like a statue, gazing upon the face 
of his boy, who lay stretched upon the ground 
at his feet! The bullet aimed at his father had 
gone through the child’s head ; for he had come 
out from behind the wagon just as the shot was 
fired. The aim was not a true one. I really 
believe my husband did not intend to kill Mr. 
Jacobus, but aimed low that he might simply 
wound him. As soon as he saw what he had 
done, he flung his gun from him, and came back 
and kneeled by the little boy that he loved so 
much, and groaned in despair.” 

Mrs. Jenkins was completely overcome with 
emotion, and sobbed like a child. When she 
grew calmer, she continued: 


i 82 


THE COLONELS CHARGE . 


“We took the boy, and made, as best we 
could, a kind of coffin, and all of us went out 
that night and dug a grave on the plains and 
buried him. We knew we could not take him 
with us. We could not go back to our old 
homes with him, so we buried him there. My 
husband and I went to bed that night in our 
wagon as usual. I did not sleep. I do n’t 
know whether he did or not. I felt that it would 
only be right if Mr. Jacobus should come in the 
night and take the life of the slayer of his son ; 
but he did not. When daylight came we got 
up, and began to make preparations for break- 
fact, though surely none of us could eat. Mrs. 
Jacobus and her husband did not come out of 
their wagon; so, after awhile, because Mr. Jen- 
kins would not, I went and looked into their 
wagon ; but they were not there. I have never 
seen them since. I do n’t know where they are. 
I only know that in the night they went away. 
That morning, before we started on our journey, 
which now was to be an aimless one, as we 
scarcely knew which way to go, we went to the 
little grave, that we might kneel by its side and 
again weep over the child. When we arrived 
there, we found that some one had been there 
before us. We supposed it was Mr. Jacobus; 
for the body was not there. It had been taken 
up. After that we journeyed westward, taking 


LIGHT IN DARK PLACES. 


i8 3 

our baby with us. But Mr. Jenkins was a changed 
man. He was not better, but worse than he 
had ever been at times.” 

“ I am sure,” said Mr. Carl, “ you have suf- 
fered enough during all these years to punish 
you for any wrong-doing — even if there had 
been wrong-doing — but I can not see that you 
are to blame.” 

“O, sir,” said Mrs. Jenkins, “ do you think 
that they will do anything with me for it?” 

“For what, my dear woman?” he asked. 

“For keeping this boy, or because I did not 
tell about the other.” 

“Let your mind be at rest on these things,” 
said Mr. Carl. “There is nobody to do any- 
thing with you, even if there was anything to 
be done; but there is not. You deserve credit 
for what you have done rather than blame. You 
have cared for this boy ; you have saved his life 
for some good purpose, doubtless — a purpose 
which we can not now see.” 

Mrs. Jenkins was soothed by Mr. Carl’s 
words ; but she still dreaded the thought of 
meeting Mr. Jacobus. 

“ Do you suppose he will come to see me?” 
she asked at last. 

“No; he is dead; was killed in the army. 
And Mrs. Jacobus, poor woman! would not 
know you if she should see you. She does not 


THE COLONELS CHARGE . 


184 

remember anything except that she had a little 
boy that she loved dearly, arid who was the 
joy of her life. She remembers that ; but 
everything else seems to have gone from her 
memory.” 

Mrs. Jenkins sighed heavily, and said : 
“ Poor woman ! I have thought of her all 
these years, and have wished that I could see 
her ; and yet that could not be while he lived.” 

After promising to visit her again some time, 
Mr. Carl and Miss Laura started upon their re- 
turn journey, glad that they had so many facts 
in their possession with reference to Theodore’s 
past, and yet sorry that all that Mrs. Jenkins 
knew fell far short of what they desired to 
know. They could only guess that they had 
been lost in some river disaster; but the par- 
ticulars were unknown to them. 

When they reached home, Miss Laura, to see 
what effect her words would have upon Mrs. 
Jacobus, said gently: 

“ That was a pretty boy, your Theodore.” 

At once her face brightened, and she said : 

“O yes; but did you know him?” 

“No; but I have seen one who does. Do 
you remember a Mrs. Jenkins?” 

“Jenkins?” said Mrs > Jacobus, thoughtfully; 
“Jenkins?” and, after a long pause, she shook 
her head and said: “I can’t remember.” 


LIGHT IN DARK PLACES. 1 85 

• 

Before Miss Laura left for home, she came 
down-stairs and said to Mr. Carl: 

“Now, we must write the boys what we 
know at once. It surely will be sad news to 
Theodore, and perhaps to Babbitt and Jakey; 
for they have up to this time supposed that we 
were on the right road to discover Theodore’s 
parents, and here we stop. We know where 
Mr. Jenkins got him, and we can not tell more 
than that.” 

“It is sad,” said Mr. Carl; “but we will 
write. Suppose,” he said, “ you write to The- 
odore himself. I dare say the poor boy never 
had a letter in his life, and it would be a real 
pleasure for him to get one from some one, and 
especially from you, since you are as much in- 
terested in this matter as I am myself.” 

Before the close of the next day the letters 
had been written and compared, and mailed to 
Babbitt and Theodore. 

16 



/ 


Sbapteu 

A SUNDAY SURPRISE. 

U P to this time there had been no effort on 
the part of the chaplain to hold any relig- 
ious services. He had been busy, however, in 
attending to the mail for the regiment, and in 
visiting and consoling, either in their tents or in 
the hospital, such as were sick. However, he 
felt that they might with profit have some kind 
of a religious service ; so, going through the 
companies, he told them that that afternoon he 
would be under a tree, which he pointed out, 
to meet such as cared to take part in a relig- 
ious service of some kind — he did not know 
just what. 

At the appointed time some fifteen or twenty 
men had assembled. Among them were the 
Little Corporal’s mess — Babbitt, George, and 
Jakey — gladly going, as it would be to them a 
reminder of some of their home experiences. 
Theodore went, not because he wanted to go, or 
had any interest in a gathering of that kind, but 
1 86 


A SUNDAY SURPRISE. 


187 


because the rest of the mess were going, and he 
did not care to be separated from them even for 
an hour. 

There was no scarcity of Bibles or Testa- 
ments ; for all who had gone had taken with them 
their Testaments, which they had been careful 
to bring from their homes. 

The services consisted in the reading of the 
Scripture responsively, the chaplain reading one 
verse and the men another, and a prayer by the 
chaplain, and then the reading of another chap- 
ter, with questions asked on each verse after it 
had been read. 

They had just about concluded this exercise 
when Colonel Smith was seen coming toward 
them. He did not at once join the little group 
that was seated upon the grass under the tree, 
but came near and leaned against a tree, so that 
he could be within hearing distance, and yet 
not be actually a member of the little company. 
As the chaplain was about to dismiss them, 
Colonel Smith came forward and said : 

“I am glad, Chaplain, that you have con- 
cluded to hold such services as this, and I think 
that I will see to it that hereafter there will be 
better attendance; for I am sure it can not fail 
to have a good effect on the men to have you 
deliver an address each Sabbath, or at such 
times as you may feel it to be best.” 


i88 


THE COLONELS CHARGE . 


For some time Theodore had been wonder- 
ing if the little mess to which he belonged were 
different from the others, in that they had such 
revence for God and such faith in his Word. He 
was not quite prepared to find the colonel, who 
had so quickly become his beau ideal of a man, 
taking the stand which he did. He could not 
help wondering if the colonel knew just what he 
believed — or did not believe, rather — he would 
be as kind to him as he had been, or whether 
that would make any difference. 

When the Sabbath -school had been dis- 
missed, and the men began to disperse, Colonel 
Smith came up to Theodore, and said : 

“Theodore, suppose you go with me to my 
tent;” and he led the way, and Theodore fol- 
lowed to his tent. As a matter of fact, Colonel 
Smith had no object in view except to show a 
friendliness to the young man that he insisted 
had saved his life ; and he did not know how he 
could more clearly demonstrate his desire to be 
a friend to him than by making him, as far as 
possible, a companion at such times and under 
such circumstances as would not in any way 
affect his authority. 

“I thought,” the colonel said, as he went 
into his tent, and placed a camp-stool for Theo- 
dore to sit upon, “that you would like to look 
at some pictures that I prize very much.” 


A SUNDAY SURPRISE . 


189 


He then took from his camp-chest a lot of 
old-time miniatures — not photographs, but what 
were known as ambrotypes. 

“ This,” he said, handing him one, “ is the 
picture of my father. I got it from an aunt 
not very long ago, and I prize it more than I 
can tell.” 

Theodore took it in his hand, and gazed 
long and silently at the picture before him. 
Under any circumstances he would have de- 
clared that the colonel’s father was a handsome 
man ; but as his heart was burning with the 
thought that, in all probability, he was looking 
upon the face of his own father, he declared, 
with an emphasis that startled the colonel: 

“I never saw a handsomer man!” and again 
fell to devouring the face with his eyes. Pres- 
ently he looked up, and the colonel stood before 
him, deeply interested in Theodore’s manner, 
holding in his hand another miniature, which 
he passed over to Theodore, taking the one he 
had, and said: 

“ That is a picture of my mother. I got 
that from my aunt, too.” 

If Theodore’s heart before was almost burst- 
ing, he now felt his emotion quite carrying him 
away ; and as he looked at the picture it faded 
from his view, hidden by the blinding tears 
which he in vain strove to repress. The colonel 


190 THE CO LONE VS CHARGE. 

could not guess his thoughts. Knowing that 
he was an orphan, and that he did not know 
anything of his parents, he naturally supposed 
that the emotion he displayed was due entirely 
to a consciousness of his utter loneliness, and 
out of sympathy for him possibly. Reaching 
out for the picture which Theodore still clung 
to, as though loath to give it up, the colonel 
said : 

“ Here is one that I look at as often as I 
look at the pictures of my parents ; and some- 
times I am almost persuaded to say that I would 
rather see this one than to see them. He was 
such a darling; and we all loved him so!” And 
he passed him a picture of a baby, yet in long 
clothes, apparently leaning against the bosom 
of some lady; for Theodore thought he could 
see at one side of the picture the outline of a 
portion of a lady’s arm, as though it might be 
around the child. 

“ And that,” said the colonel, as Theodore 
looked upon the picture calmly, “ is my baby 
brother that was drowned in the Missouri — or 
is somewhere, I don’t know where.” 

Theodore knew better. He knew that that 
was his picture, or, at least, he thought he did; 
and, in spite of himself, he smiled as he looked 
upon the portrait and tried to imagine that he 
ever looked like that. The colonel was sur- 


A SUNDA Y SURPRISE. 1 9 1 

prised that he should show less interest in this 
than in the picture of his parents ; for Theo- 
dore’s manner changed, and, instead of being 
so saddened, was bright and even animated. 
His eyes gleamed with a pleasure that was 
quite new to them, so far as the colonel had 
been able to detect. 

“ Do you not think that is a pretty baby?” 
said the colonel. “ That was taken a year or 
more before the accident. He got handsomer 
all the time.” 

Theodore said: “Yes, that is a pretty baby; 
but I would rather look at the other pictures 
than this.” 

“Why is that?” said the colonel. 

“Well,” said Theodore, “babies’ pictures do 
not mean much. They all look alike to me. 
But these other pictures mean something.” 
And then, with a sudden change from his man- 
ner of light-hearted indifference to one of in- 
tense interest and soberness, he said: “ I would 
like to look at that lady’s picture always.” 

The colonel could not understand; so scarcely 
knowing that he did so, he reached back to the 
table on which he had placed his mother’s pic- 
ture, and handed it again to Theodore. He 
grasped it eagerly, and, holding it in both hands, 
shading it so that the light would not prevent 
his seeing distinctly the features before him, he 


192 the COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

sat as one in a trance, excepting that his body 
trembled under suppressed emotion, and that 
his breath came hard and quick. 

“ I wish that you could have known her,” 
said the colonel. “ I am glad that you like to 
look at that picture. I am always glad when 
anybody likes my mother’s picture.” 

“ I wish I could have known her,” said The- 
odore ; and then, wondering if he dared to say 
so, and yet yielding to the impulse of the mo- 
ment, he said: “That is the kind of a lady that 
I have always imagined my mother to be.” And 
then, as if that was not quite true, for he really 
had not thought of such a thing in just that 
way, he said: “I mean I would not be disap- 
pointed if that should be the picture of my own 
mother!” 

“Well, here is another,” said the colonel, giv- 
ing no especial heed to these words of the 
young soldier. “This is a picture taken lately, 
since the war commenced — a photograph of my 
sister.” 

“O yes,” said Theodore; “I would know 
that anywhere. You remember, I saw her at 
Mattoon, when we were in camp there; but I 
did not know her then.” 

“How was that?” said the colonel, turning 
a quick glance upon Theodore. 

“Why, I mean — ” He did not dare to say 


A SUNDAY SURPRISE. 


*93 


what he meant; so he thought a moment, and 
changed his words, saying: “Well, you know, 
then — ” Again he hesitated, as in doubt 
whether he should betray himself or not. Fi- 
nally he stammered: “I mean I did not know 
you so well, Colonel, as I do now.” 

“O, that is it?” said the colonel, smiling. 
“Well, I hope, my friend, that we shall know 
each other better than we know each other 
now.” And then, gathering the pictures up and 
slipping them into his camp-chest, the colonel 
said: “I do not speak of it boastingly, and I 
hope you will understand clearly why I tell you, 
but when we get home, Theodore, unless you 
have some other place you would rather go, I 
believe, if you are the kind of a young man I 
think you are, I would like to have you go into 
my store.” 

“ I am sure I should be glad to do that,” 
said Theodore ; “ but I know nothing about a 
store.” 

“ Well, you can learn,” said the colonel ; 
“and I shall try and be very patient with you 
and teach you; and perhaps,” he said, as though 
he felt it was time for him to express fully his 
esteem of the services rendered him by the 
young man — “my sister and I live at our own 
home — and perhaps you would like to make your 
home with us? If I do say it myself, our home 
17 


194 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


is a lovely place ; for I do not mind telling you 
what everybody does not know, — when that ter- 
rible accident happened, my father was consid- 
ered a wealthy man, and his wealth consisted 
principally, except what he had invested in 
his business, in real estate, and that real estate 
has not gone down in value any since that time. 
You may form your own conclusions from what 
I tell you. Think of this, Theodore; and if we 
all live to get home — and I hope we will — remem- 
ber, you can have a place with me in business 
and in my home.” 

“Perhaps,” said Theodore, “if you knew all 
about me that I know, you would not want me 
to be with you — perhaps you would not have 
me about your place.” 

The colonel was somewhat confused at this, 
but said : 

“I do not know to what you refer. I hope 
it is nothing serious ; for I have been thinking 
about the pleasure it should give me to see you 
well started upon the high road to success. 
However, we’ll see! we’ll see!” 

“ It is very kind of you,” said Theodore, 
“and I feel that I do not deserve any of the 
things that you propose to do for me. You will 
find me, perhaps, very dull. I never had any 
schooling except what I got at home.” 

“Never mind that,” said the colonel. “You 


A SUNDAY SURPRISE. 


*95 


are young yet, and there is abundant time for 
you to go to school. I hope that you desire an 
education. That is the main thing, after all.” 
After a few more words with reference to the 
probabilities of the future, the colonel said that 
Theodore might return to his quarters. 

When he had crawled into the tent, he found 
the other boys all engaged at one work or an- 
other — writing letters home or reading from 
their Testaments. He had no one to write to 
and had no Testament to read, and no inclina- 
tion to read if he had had it. But as he lay 
stretched out under the tent, his hands clasped 
under his head, his eyes closed as if asleep, he 
dreamed ; but this dream was not that of sleep, 
but of a mind quickened by what he had heard 
and seen that afternoon; and his dream was of 
a time when all the proof which he thought 
needed could be furnished to show that he was 
really the little boy who was found in the water, 
and was, indeed, the colonel’s brother. As he 
thought over this matter, he concluded that he 
would insist that no one of the mess should 
make known his identity until it was his pleas- 
ure to do so, as he hoped to be able to win a place 
in the mind and heart of the colonel more than 
he already possessed before it should be proven 
to him that Theodore was his brother. 

That afternoon, after Theodore had returned 


196 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

to his tent, the colonel turned to his writing- 
desk and wrote a long letter to his sister, in 
which he told her of his plans. She had before 
been made acquainted with the brave act of the 
young soldier, and had had her heart moved in 
sympathy for him as she learned of his orphan 
life, and the colonel felt certain that what he 
was about to propose would be heartily approved 
by her. The letter concluded with these words : 

“We may never be able to find our baby 
brother, my sister ; but it is certain that in this 
young man we have some mother’s darling 
child, and in doing for him what I propose, we 
are doing only what we could wish should be 
done for our brother if, by any chance, he 
should now be alive and in need of assistance 
from any one. It will be proper, perhaps, for 
us to acquaint ourselves fully with what of 
the history of this young man is known, and, 
as soon as I can, I will hunt up the company 
records, and find where he hails from and who 
his acquaintances are at home. And when I 
have done this, I wish you would take the in- 
formation and find out all you can about his 
antecedents and his associations before he en- 
tered the army.” 


* 



Chapter XVJJ. 

A BROKEN CHAIN. 

T HE regiment removed to Helena, Arkansas, 
from Memphis, Tennessee, and there Bab- 
bitt was detailed as corporal of the guard in the 
hospital which had been established in a de- 
serted residence. While there, he found, among 
some old papers swept into an unused room by 
the hospital servants, a letter, which he kept to 
show to Theodore when he should be ordered 
back to camp. Such an order came after a few 
days, and he found himself with his mess again. 
He gave Theodore the letter. 

“You read it,” Theodore said, handing it back. 
“Just as you like,” said Babbitt; though he 
was glad that Theodore had made such a sug- 
gestion, as in that way the rest of the mess 
would become acquainted with the contents of 
the letter as soon as Theodore ; and it was cer- 
tainly one of as much interest to them, in some 
respects, as to him. 

The letter was dated at Memphis, Tennessee, 

197 


198 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


1847. It was addressed to the Hon. S. Sebas- 
tian on the outside of the folded paper. Inside, 
after the date, were the words, “ My dear uncle.” 
It was signed simply, “Your affectionate niece, 
Clara.” 

The letter itself was after the style of old- 
time epistles from friend to friend. It was long, 
and abounded in minute details — a peculiarity 
which was the charm of letters of that day, 
when people did not write often, but when they 
did write, left nothing untold that would in the 
least degree interest their correspondents. The 
whole of the letter need not be given, but that 
portion of it which first attracted Babbitt’s atten- 
tion, and which he thought would be so inter- 
esting to Theodore, was as follows : 

“Now, my dear uncle, I must tell you about 
that awful night. Of course you have heard be- 
fore this that I was in the wreck of the Saxon , on 
the Missouri River, and you must have seen in 
the papers that I am one of the saved. I can 
not tell you how grateful I am to a kind Provi- 
dence for mercifully sparing my life. I am glad 
I was the only one of our family aboard the 
boat, though sister Emma intended to go with 
me up to the very last hour before starting. 
One of my saddest recollections is connected 
with a family whom I met for the first time on 
that trip. The gentleman was a prominent 


A BROKEN CHAIN. 


I 99 


business man from Ohio. His wife was a lady 
of the utmost refinement and culture. You can 
readily believe this, when I tell you that her 
ancestors are all of the South, and that she 
herself is a native of our dear Southland. 

“They had with them a son and a daughter 
and a baby boy. There was no other child 
aboard the boat — at least I saw no other — and 
this baby was the center of attraction for all the 
men and ladies around. The gentleman’s name 
was Smith. I can not now recall the names of 
the children, for really I did not pay much heed 
to them. But that is not what I was going to 
tell you ; and I am afraid that I shall not be able to 
tell you in this letter all of the terrible things 
of that night ; but after the boat blew up, and I 
was rescued, I learned that this entire family 
were lost. You can imagine how deep was my 
distress ; for, in that short time we had been 
together on the boat, I had become strongly 
attached to Mr. Smith and his wife. 

“There were a number of people rescued by 
the same boat that picked me up. Some of 
them I had met, but most of them were strangers 
to me. I was so shocked by the accident that I 
kept to my state-room all the time until we 
reached St. Louis. By that time I felt much 
improved, and was out on deck as some of the 
rescued people were being landed ; for I did 


2,00 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


not intend to stop there, yon know, but was 
coining on down home by the next steamer. 

“I found, by inquiry among the passengers, 
that the family of which I spoke had not all been 
drowned, but that the children had been saved, 
and had been met at the wharf by friends of Mr. 
Smith, who lived in St. Louis. But what seemed 
so sad to me is that both their father and mother 
should have perished, and that the children should 
have been saved. If I had had the arranging of 
the fates I would have let the children go to the 
bottom, or straight to heaven, whichever you 
please, and would have saved the father and 
mother. Now that little baby must be tossed 
about, perhaps, or at least go uncared for by either 
parent. And yet I am glad, for I can now see his 
sweet face. I wish I could have seen him once 
before they landed at St. Louis ; I should like to 
have kissed him for his mother. It is a fortunate 
thing, however, that he fell into the hands of 
his father’s friends in St. Louis. 

“But I know you do not care for me to write 
so much about other people and nothing about 
myself ; so I will now give you, as far as I can, 
an account of my own experiences from the time 
I found myself in the water until I was rescued.” 

And then followed a detailed and graphic 
account of what she had. suffered and seen and 
heard that night. 


A BROKEN CHAIN. 


201 


When Babbitt had finished reading the letter 
he flung it down on his bunk, with a happy 
face turned toward Theodore, and said : 

“And that completes the chain.” 

To his surprise Theodore manifested no in- 
terest; but if any concern could be noted, it 
was that of disappointment. 

“So it does,” he said ; “but to me that is the 
saddest letter that could possibly come.” 

“Well, why so?” said Babbitt, anxiously. 
“It tells you just as plain as day that you are 
the brother of the colonel ; and, if I were 
you, I would go to him right away with this 
letter.” 

“Certainly,” said George, “I think that is 
the best thing to do.” 

“But hold on a moment,” said Theodore; 
“do you not see that this letter proves just the 
reverse of what you say ? It tells distinctly that 
Mr. Smith’s children were all rescued and brought 
to St. Louis ; and, if they had been, how would 
it be possible for me to be the lost child ?” 

“Yes; but don’t you see,” said Babbitt, 
quickly, “that there must be some mistake, for 
the colonel himself says that his baby brother 
was never heard of after that night.” 

“ I know he said that ; but probably there 
was more than one boat passing down the 
Missouri the next day, and the boat that picked 


202 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


up this lady picked up the baby ; so, even if 
they didn’t get together, they were saved.” 

While they were discussing this matter the 
chaplain came, and, as usual, brought the mail ; 
and in that mail were Mr. Carl’s and Miss 
Laura’s letters. They were hastily read ; and 
then they all agreed that Theodore’s fears were 
not without ground, for they understood clearly 
that he had been rescued from the river by some 
person in Missouri, who had given him or sold 
him to Mr. Jenkins. 

“But,” said Babbitt, brightening, “this lady 
says there was no other baby on board, and that 
must be you.” 

“It can not be!” said Theodore; “it can 
not be!” And then, with an effort as though he 
would have it otherwise, he said : “It may have 
been that I was among the poorer class of pas- 
sengers, down below in the steerage.” After 
thinking a moment, he said: “At any rate, I 
will give this letter to the colonel. It can not 
mean me, and it may give him some clew by 
which he can find his brother at last.” 

“ That would be very good,” suggested 
George, “if there was any name; but that is 
simply the given name, and he could not find 
in Memphis any one answering to the name of 
Clara who was aboard that boat at that time.” 

“Slighter clews than that,” said Theodore, 


A BROKEN CHAIN . 


203 


“ have been used to the unraveling of great 
mysteries. Any way, this letter belongs to the 
colonel; and as far as I am concerned,” he said 
resolutely, “all I have thought about it or 
hoped about it shall be put away forever. Of 
one thing I am certain, I am not his brother.” 

With a saddening countenance, he turned 
over and buried his face in his hands. The rest 
of the mess had nothing to say, but were si- 
lently meditating, until finally Theodore said: 

“ Babbitt, if you want to do me a kindness, 
I hope you will take that letter now to the 
colonel.” 

“I would rather not,” said Babbitt. 

“I wish you would,” said Theodore, ear- 
nestly; “ I wish you would. It can make no dif- 
ference to me, and it may be a very great treas- 
ure to him.” 

Knowing that remonstrance would be in 
vain, and pitying Theodore in his distress, Bab- 
bitt at once crawled from under the tent and 
made his way to head-quarters, where he left 
the letter in the colonel’s keeping. When he 
returned to the tent, they re-read the ^letters 
which they ha'd just received from home. 

Under any other circumstances Miss Laura’s 
letter to Theodore would have awakened most 
grateful feelings ; but having had the letter 
which Babbitt brought from the hospital be- 


204 


'1 HE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


fore the other came, he was too much disap< 
pointed to appreciate fully the contents of Miss 
Laura’s. 

“I wish now,” said Babbitt, “I hadn’t found 
that letter; for if we did not have that, we would 
feel certain that there was no break in the chain 
which unites Theodore with the colonel ; for you 
know the colonel says that his little brother was 
found by some one, but that neither he nor his 
father’s friends could ever discover his where- 
abouts; and he said that his brother, on the 
night of the accident, had his mother’s locket 
on. Mrs. Jenkins says that Theodore was found 
in the river, and that when they got him he had 
a locket. Now, it seems to me that that is evi- 
dence enough that Theodore is the colonel’s 
brother, and all that he needs to do is to go 
to Colonel Smith with these letters, and he will 
not only recognize him, but will be overjoyed 
to find that his brother is right in the camp 
with him.” 

“Or,” said George, speaking earnestly, as 
though lie had just thought of it, “if Mr. Carl 
should* send that locket down here, Colonel 
Smith could very easily tell whether it was the 
one his brother had worn.” 

“And if it was,” said Jakey, “no one could 
dispute that they are brothers.” 

Theodore had listened attentively, but he 


A BROKEN CHAIN. 205 

gave heed to his fears rather than his hopes ; so 
he said: 

“That all might be true, and yet I could not 
make myself feel that that was evidence enough ; 
and then here is this letter from a lady who was 
on that boat, who knew Colonel Smith’s father 
and mother, and who knew him, and yet she 
says that all the children were found; so that 
leaves me out.” 

“Well, where did you come from?” asked 
Jakey. 

Theodore was obliged to smile at this way 
of putting the matter, and said: “I can not 
tell.” 

“Well, let us go to the colonel with all the 
facts we have,” said George, “ tell him our story, 
and may be he can help us.”. 

“What’s that?” said Theodore, raising him- 
self up. “Go to him! Haven’t you all prom- 
ised me that you will not mention the matter to 
him until I feel that it is best? He has already 
told me that he is glad that I did something for 
him, and now, if I go to him with this story, he 
will feel that I am trying to impose upon him. 
I will not do it, and you must not,” he said, 
lying down again ; for his head was throbbing 
with pain and his leg was troubling him ex- 
ceedingly. 

“At any rate,” said Babbitt, “we might in- 


206 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE . 


quire, when we can, some time, whether he re- 
members anything about this lady, and if she 
was on the same boat that picked him up.” 

“That’s it!” said Theodore, excitedly; 
“ that ’s it ! But, do n’t you see, he was on 
some other boat — I know he must have been — 
and his baby brother was picked up by the boat 
that this lady was on.” 

“But how is it, then,” suggested George, 
“that she says they were all taken care of by 
his father’s friends at St. Touis?” 

“I don’t know about that,” said Theodore; 
“ I can ’t tell ; but one thing I do know, and 
that is, I am not going to set up a claim to 
being a brother of Colonel Smith’s, and the 
more so since he has told me that his father 
was wealthy. No, I will not do that; I would 
rather beg!” 

“ Which you will not have to do,” said 
Babbitt, “ brother or no brother. You have 
done so much for him, and he thinks so much 
of you already, that you will never lack for a 
home.” 

“Well,” said Theodore finally, “I wish I had 
never seen that letter this afternoon. That just 
makes me feel that, perhaps, my parents were 
poor people. I am not ashamed of that that I 
know of, but I wish it was some other way.” 

And so did they all wish it was some other 


A BROKEN CHAIN. 


20 7 


way. They had thought that they were surely 
grasping the right lines to lead them to a dis- 
covery of Theodore’s parents, and were sorry 
that Babbitt’s letter, which he found at the hos- 
pital, instead of strengthening the chain had 
really broken it. 





Chapter* IP? Ill 


SEPARATED. 


HEODORB had a natural aversion, as did 



all the soldiers, to going to the hospital as 


long as he could stay out of it ; but after toss- 
ing restlessly all the day and the succeeding 
night, worrying the meanwhile over the letters 
which had come to him, he felt that he was 
too sick to remain longer in the camp with his 
comrades, if he had any expectation of living 


at all. 


Having heard Babbitt tell of the accommo- 
dations at the hospital in the town, he dreaded 
the idea of being taken there; but that he was 
in need of nursing, in need of medicine, be- 
came more and more apparent as the hours 
slipped by. 

He was surprised by a visit from the colo- 
nel one afternoon, a short time after the events 
of the last chapter occurred, and the colonel 
was equally surprised at Theodore’s condition. 


SEPARATED. 209 

He made him strip his leg, so he could exam- 
ine the wound for himself, and he said: 

“You must go to the hospital at once. That 
wound is really becoming dangerous, and I tell 
you plainly that you may see the necessity for 
prompt action. It may be that we can save 
your life only by taking off your leg. I hope 
that will not have to be done.” 

Theodore was thoroughly frightened by these 
words, and quickly made up his mind to submit 
to any treatment in any place if he might es- 
cape the loss of his leg. 

“Besides that,” said the colonel, looking on 
Theodore’s flushed face and parched lips and 
dull eyes, “ you are threatened with a severe 
fever — a malarial attack. I feel a little that 
way myself,” he said. “Indeed, I believe that 
this is about the worst piece of country I ever 
saw. I can tell by looking in the faces of the 
men that they are nearly all sick. I will see 
what I can do for you, Theodore. Of course I 
can offer you no accommodations other than 
those of the hospital down in the town ; but if 
you go there — and you must — I will see that 
you are provided for as well as our facilities 
will allow.” 

After this he returned to his head-quarters. 
The other boys were devoting their time be- 
tween sympathy for Theodore in his affliction 
18 


210 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


and regrets at the necessity of his being taken 
from them. While they were talking, Babbitt 
looked out of the tent down the river, and saw 
a boat coming up that was different from any- 
thing he had seen. It had been a regular Mis- 
sissippi steamer, he judged ; but the promenade 
about the cabin-deck had been boxed up, as 
also had been the space around the engines and 
boilers on the lower deck, which was usually, on 
river steamers of that kind, reserved for freight. 
As he was wondering what such a queer-look- 
ing craft could be, he discovered floating from 
the flag-staff not only the Stars and Stripes, but 
a white flag, and then he remembered that that 
was a token that the boat was devoted to the 
use of the sick, and so it was. 

The boat which he had descried was the D. 
A. January , a fine river steamer, which had 
been converted into a floating hospital, and 
which visited all the points along the river, 
picking up such cases as needed better atten- 
tion than could be given in the field hospitals, 
and taking them north. As he watched it, the 
boat slowly edged up to the wharf and stopped. 
He did not know, of course, any of the partic- 
ulars concerning this boat, nor did he guess 
what its errand was there. 

By and by, however, there drove into the 
camp three or four ambulances. The surgeons 


SEPARATED. 


211 


of the regiment, accompanied by the hospital 
steward of the regiment, went through the camp 
making inquiries as to the sick. In their prog- 
ress they came to the tent of the kittle Corpo- 
ral’s mess, and said: 

“The hospital boat is at the wharf, and in- 
structions have been given that if there are any 
very sick in the regiment, to have them taken 
on board that boat, as the hospital here is a very 
poor affair, and is full anyway.” 

“There is a very sick lad here,” said George 
“ that ought to go.” 

As he said this, Theodore reached out and 
took hold of his sleeve, and gave it a little jerk, 
which he understood meant for him to be still. 

“Who is that?” said one of the surgeons, 
stooping down and looking into the tent. 

“Why, Theodore, over here.” 

“What is the matter, my man?” said the 
surgeon. 

“Nothing, sir,” said Theodore; “just a little 
hurt on my leg, that ’s all.” 

The surgeon and the steward did not tarry, 
but passed on. While they were visiting an- 
other company, Colonel Smith came down to 
the tent, and said: 

“Theodore, get ready. I shall have you go 
north on that boat. It is the only way that your 
life can be saved. If you stay here I am certain 


212 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


that you will lose your life; and if you don’t, 
you may lose your leg. The boat will tarry 
only a little while. Boys, you help him get 
ready,” he said to the others; and then he has- 
tened back to his tent, as he had important du- 
ties to perform there. 

By and by the surgeon and the steward came 
again to the tent, peeped in, and, without a 
word to any one, walked away. They had been 
gone only a few minutes before an ambulance 
drove up and stopped, and a man jumped out, 
saying : 

“Who is it here that wants to go to the 
boat?”' 

The boys had hastily packed Theodore’s 
knapsack, had given to him his haversack and 
canteen, and said: “We suppose you will not 
need your gun or cartridge-box, nor your other 
accouterments; so leave them here.” With dif- 
ficulty they assisted him into the ambulance. 

“Can’t you go with me?” he said to Bab- 
bitt, pleadingly. 

“No,” said Babbitt; “I am sure I can not.” 

“Please just go to the river! Get in. No 
one will know any better. You can come 
back.” % 

There was no time for parleying; so Bab- 
bitt yielded to Theodore’s entreaties, and climbed 
into the ambulance with him. The driver had 


SEPARATED. 


213 


taken liis seat, and, as there were only a few min- 
utes to spare, drove rapidly to the levee. They 
did not know that ambulances had visited every 
other camp, and that they had brought down 
scores of sick to the river’s edge to be taken on 
the boat. Besides the sick that had been brought 
to the levee by the ambulance, there were gath- 
ered along the banks of the river a hundred or 
more men, who looked with longing eyes upon 
the boat which was northward-bound, every one 
of whom would have been willing to sacrifice 
almost anything he possessed if he might be 
permitted to board that boat and start home. 
It mattered to them but little which way the 
boat weut, or at what place it might land, so 
that it was northward and in their home-land. 

Theodore himself, as he drew near to the 
river, caught the desire of the others, and felt 
that it would be better to be 011 that steamer 
going northward away from that country than to 
remain in camp. He felt then the full force of 
the fears which had crowded his mind for sev- 
eral days — the fear that he would not live to get 
away from there. 

Babbitt assisted him out of the ambulance, 
placed his knapsack for a seat upon the levee, 
and helped him sit down. 

“O, I am sure it is best for you, Theodore. 
I am sure that, with good care, you will get 


214 


THE COLONEH S CHARGE. 


well. But I have felt that if you stay here, and 
your wound is so bad, that, as the colonel says, 
you may die, and I don’t want you to die yet.” 

“No,” said Theodore earnestly, “nor do I 
want to die. There are some things I want to 
see to first.” 

“Yes,” said Babbitt earnestly, “you want to 
find — ” 

“Yes,” said Theodore, anticipating him, “I 
want to find my mother; or, if not that, some- 
body that I am kin to. O, Babbitt,” he said, 
looking up into his face with earnestness and a 
depth of feeling which he had never shown before, 
while his eyes were moist with tears, — “O, Bab- 
bitt, you do not know how lonely I am!” 

“No,” said Babbitt, sympathetically, “I do 
not. I can not understand what it is not to 
have any father, any mother; not to know 
whence you came, not to know where you are 
going, not to know anything about your future. 
I have always had a home. I know that if I 
were sick as you are, and hurt as you are, that I 
need but write to my father, and he would 
spare no effort and no money to get me into his 
own house ; and then,” said Babbitt, while his 
eyes danced in pleasure at the thought, “ and 
then I know what my mother would do ! I am 
sure that I could never be so sick that she could 
not cure me.” 


SEPARATED. 


215 


For a moment Theodore did not reply. He 
could not. He did not wish to show the feeling 
that possessed him. He did not want, there, in 
that public place, to give way to his emotions, 
so he choked them all back. 

“Where does this boat go?” said Babbitt to a 
soldier, who seemed to have come off the boat; 
for he did not look like the rest, and was walk- 
ing up and down the levee. 

“We are bound for Jefferson Barracks, a few 
miles below St. Louis. There are fine hospitals 
there. We make regular trips up and down the 
river to take the sick to those hospitals.” 

“And is it a nice place?” he asked. 

“Nice,” said the soldier. “It is not nice to 
be sick, of course, nor to have wounds; but if 
there is any good place for sick people to be, 
and be well cared for and watched like babes 
at home, that is the hospital at Jefferson Bar- 
racks. Why,” he said, growing enthusiastic, 
“ there is somebody watching you from one 
day’s end to the other. You can ’t turn over 
without a nurse rushing up to know if you want 
anything. You have only to say that you have 
an appetite to eat, and all kinds of delicacies 
are brought to you. That is in God’s land,” lie 
said, “ and those are God’s people.” 

Theodore could not fail to catch the mean, 
ing of these words, and to see how great the 


2l6 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE . 


contrast of the surroundings of such a place as 
that and this rough camp-life ; and he knew 
that if he had had the care that would be pos- 
sible at such a place, he would have escaped a 
great deal of suffering he had endured on ac- 
count of his hurt. 

“Could our friends come to see us?” asked 
Babbitt. 

“O yes,” said the man, “if you get up there 
in that hospital, up in God’s country, your 
friends can get to you.” 

“And how far is it from St. Louis?” asked 
Babbitt again, eagerly. 

“Only about twenty miles ; just about twenty 
miles from St. Louis — go down by the boat, or 
you can go down on the cars.” 

“Think of that, Theodore,” said Babbitt. 
“Why, it is only four or five hours from our 
home to St. Louis. Why, father could leave 
home in the morning and be down to the hos- 
pital at twelve.” 

“Yes,” said Theodore, “and I suppose if 
you were there, and he knew it, the first train 
would take him.” 

“So it would!” said Babbitt, earnestly; “so 
it would! But do you know, Theodore, that he 
will see you?” 

“No, it can not be.” 

“It will. When I go back to camp I shall 


SEPARATED. 


217 


write him that you have gone there, and he will 
be down to see you. I know he will, for my 
sake; whether he wants to do so or not, he will 
for my sake.” 

“I am not so sure,” said Theodore. 

“No, I know you are not,” said Babbitt. 
“You can not be sure; but I am sure. Why, 
he is my father; I am his son. Do n’t you see ?” 

“Yes, I see that,” said Theodore. 

“ Well, do you think my father would refuse 
me anything?” 

“ I do n’t know,” said Theodore, hesitatingly. 

The soldier, the meantime, who had come off 
the boat, had passed on and was out of hearing. 

“I don’t say it boastingly,” said Babbitt; 
“but it is the truth, Theodore. I have always 
tried to do what my father told me to do, and he 
knows it; and I am his only son; and if I do 
say it myself, I am his obedient son. And now, 
when I write home and ask him, for my sake, 
to go down and see you and do all he can for 
you, he will not refuse.” 

Babbitt was very earnest, and was himself 
deeply moved ; for, whilst he could not find 
Theodore’s parents, he was sure that his own 
father’s heart was so large and so warm that it 
could take in his friend, and in a measure, at least, 
atone for the loss which he had sustained. And 
he pictured to himself the joy which his father 
*9 


2l8 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


should feel when he should reach the hospital at 
Jefferson Barracks and visit Theodore for his 
own boy’s sake. 

“And another thing,” said Babbitt, as he 
thought the matter over, “I would not be a bit 
surprised if mother would go with him ; and if 
she does, Theodore, you can see by her what it 
is to have a mother.” 

Babbitt was forced to turn aside that his own 
emotion might, for a time, be hidden from his 
friend. 

While they were thus talking, a stream of 
men were passing on to the boat, and going up 
to the comfortable bunks which were assigned 
to them. 

“See,” Babbitt said. “Come, Thee, let me 
help you at once. We must go ; the boat will 
leave the first thing we know.” 

So, with great ’effort, Theodore and Babbitt 
walked down the levee, Babbitt carrying the 
knapsack and supporting Theodore at the same 
time. They came to the gang-plank, and watch- 
ing their opportunity when there was not a great 
crowd around it or on it, Babbitt helped Theo- 
dore upon the plank and on to the boat. Just 
as they set foot on the boat an officer stepped 
up to them, and touching Theodore on the 
arm, said : 

“Not so fast.” 


SEPARATED. 


219 


“Yes, sir,” Theodore replied. 

“Here, sit down,” said Babbitt, dropping the 
knapsack and helping Theodore to be seated. 

They then noticed that at the right of the 
entrance was a young man at a table with a great 
book spread out before him, while another man 
sat near with a lot of loose sheets of paper, on 
which there seemed to be written names. The 
officer who had stopped the boys as they were 
about to go on the boat, said : 

“Which one of you is going North?” 

“Theodore, sir,” said Babbitt. 

“Theodore? What is his other name?” 
asked the man. 

“Theodore Tompkins,” said Babbitt, speak- 
ing for him. 

Then the officer called to the man sitting at 
the table, “ Theodore Tompkins.” When he had 
done so, the man turned in the book until he 
had come to the pages on which were written 
the names beginning with those initials. Com- 
mencing at the top of the page he ran his finger 
down, following with his eye, turning from one 
page to another ; and then he looked up, shaking 
his head, saying: 

“Not here, sir.” 

“Very well, sir,” said the officer, turning to 
Theodore, “pick up your knapsack and get out 
of the way ; other men are waiting.” 


220 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE . 


“What is that you say, sir?” said Babbitt. 

Theodore was too much overcome with de- 
spair to say anything. 

“I said take your knapsack up and get out 
of the way. Your name is not on the list; 
consequently you can not go. I can take only 
those whose names are given us by the sur- 
geons.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Babbitt, gathering up the 
knapsack, and taking Theodore’s arm, slowly 
turning about — both with hearts too heavy, it 
seemed, for them to live. 

They paused a moment and looked up the 
levee, farther up to the great sand-hills, to the 
little white tents ; and it seemed to Babbitt that 
if Theodore went back there, it was simply that 
he might be with them a few days more, and 
that finally he should witness a scene similar to 
the one when he sat in the hospital window 
when the old man died, only that the coffin 
that should then be carried would contain, not 
the corpse of a stranger — of an aged soldier — but 
the remains of his loved Theodore, a young 
soldier, a young man, ambitious and full of 
strong desires for life. These thoughts quickly 
passed through his mind, and he felt Theodore 
tremble as he clung to his arm. They were 
making what haste they could to push their way 
through the crowd that had again thronged the 


SEPARATED. 


221 


gangway, when the clerk, who had again run 
over the register of names, calling to Bab- 
bitt, said : 

“What did you say his name is?” 

This question awakened new hope, and Bab- 
bitt quickly turned about and said : 

“Theodore Tompkins, sir.” And then, that 
he might in some way assure them: “There is 
surely a mistake. His name must be there. The 
colonel came to the tent himself and said he 
must go ; and the surgeons came, and I saw 
them writing.” 

Again the man ran his finger down the 
pages, and as he came toward the close he began 
to shake his head, and continued to shake, and 
then finally lifted his face and said to Babbitt, 
sorrowfully : 

“Indeed, his name is not here.” 

In the meantime, the man who had the loose 
sheets of paper had been running over them, 
and putting one under the clerk’s eyes, said : 

“What is that?” 

He picked up the paper and looked over it 
closely ; and then stepped to the officer who 
had been talking to the boys, and said : 

“It is here, it is here, sir. We had skipped 
it in copying the names.” 

“Very well, very well,” said the officer, who 
had been really sorry to turn the boys away; 


222 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


“come right in. Go up that stairway. The gen- 
tleman at the head will show you your place. ” 

That was enough. Theodore had found a 
place on the hospital boat. Babbitt could not 
tarry; but calling after him, “Good-bye; father 
will be there,” he rushed down the gang-plank, 
up the levee, and hurried back to camp, reach- 
ing it just in time to call George and Jakey 
out, that they might see the boat grandly move 
up the river. And they knew that it carried 
with it a heart that was united to theirs by 
many ties. 

Whether they should ever see Theodore’s 
face again they could not tell. They felt lonely 
without him, and they felt sure that he must miss 
them. “And yet,” Babbitt said, “it will only 
be a few days before my own mother can be by 
his bedside, and that means everything !” 



/T* •T* •'T'* ^ , ' ✓jn.' ij!. * l j^ !,M I^ JA:i i^-^ * I'jU'IjU 1 !) ^ 


Chapter 

UP THE RIVER. 

TTy^HEN Theodore reached the head of the 
^ V stairs on the steamer, he met the man 
who the officer in charge said would show him 
to his place. If he had been a prince, and all 
of the men around him had been his servants, 
he thought he could not have been treated with • 
greater consideration, or have had every want so 
fully anticipated. 

The interior arrangement of the hospital 
boat was different from that of an ordinary 
river steamer, in that the cabin had been con- 
verted into a hospital ward, and along both 
sides were placed comfortable cots. That por- 
tion of the boat which is usually devoted to the 
promenade around the cabin, as before said, had 
been boxed up, or inclosed, windows being 
placed along the sides, and in these rooms were 
ranged cots similar to those in the cabin. The 
same arrangement had been made on the lower 

223 


224 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


deck, so that this boat was what might be called 
a three-story hospital. 

The first thing which attracted Theodore’s 
attention, as he was being assisted along the 
aisle between the cots, which stood with their 
heads to the partition walls and their feet to- 
ward the aisle, was that everything was scrupu- 
lously clean. The floor had been scrubbed until 
it was as white as it was possible to make wood. 
Such of the cots as were occupied by the sick, 
as well as those that were awaiting occupants, 
were clad in the purest white, the sheets and 
pillow-cases, apparently, having been put on 
afresh that very morning. 

Beside each cot was a stool, and upon one of 
these Theodore was assisted by the attendant, 
who 'immediately relieved him of his canteen 
and haversack, and hung them over the head of 
the cot. He stooped down and unbuckled The- 
odore’s shoes, and gently removed them; took 
off his stockings, then assisted him in getting 
off his coat, and finally his trousers ; and, with a 
tenderness that a mother might show an infant, 
he was assisted into the cot, the sheet and 
blanket having been turned down, the pillow 
shaken up and made to look comfortable, at 
least. 

It was with a sense of great relief that The- 
odore stretched his lame leg on the soft bed, and 


UP THE RIVER. 22 5 

nestled liis head in the softer pillow, while the 
attendant tenderly covered him up, saying: 

“When you have rested a little, I will come 
to you again with some water.” 

While this was being done, Theodore had 
heard the command of the captain of the boat 
as the cables were let loose ; he heard the puff 
of the steam as the engine was started and the 
great wheels turned round, and he knew that he 
was going up the river, though he could not see 
from his cot through the windows. 

In the ward in which he had been placed 
nearly every bed was occupied by a sick soldier. 
Some of them were very sick and very quiet. 
Others of them were able to sit up in bed and 
to talk to the attendants or to their neighbor in 
the next cot. He, however, preferred to remain 
still. He never had had any better attention. 
It seemed to him he never had slept in a better 
bed, and there never were such desirable sur- 
roundings. The heat, the dust, and the dread- 
ful anxieties of the camp were all behind. 
Through the open window in the forward part 
of the ward came the cool wind from off the 
river, while through the doorway there came to 
him sounds of conversation which was quiet 
and soft and soothing, differing entirely from 
what his ears had been accustomed to in the 
camp, where there was more or less of confusion 


226 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


and of rough language, and of bustle and ac- 
tivity. Resting quietly, he dropped off to sleep. 
How long he slept he could not tell ; but he was 
awakened by some one gently shaking him by 
the shoulder, and when he had opened his eyes 
he found standing by him the attendant, a basin 
of water in his hand and a clean towel thrown 
across his shoulder. He said: 

“Now, if you will let me, I will wash your 
face and hands.” 

Theodore was inclined to do this service 
for himself, and said: 

“No; let me have the pan here, and I will 
attend to it.” 

“I can do it better,” said the attendant 
gently, at the same time setting his pan on the 
stool. He reached out and unbuttoned the col- 
lar of Theodore’s shirt and rolled it back, and 
then, with the sponge which he had brought 
with him, dipped into the cool water, gently 
bathed Theodore’s face and neck, and then his 
hands, and dried them upon the towel. 

“You would like a drink,” he said. 

“O ever so much!” said Theodore, who had 
come to the boat thirsty, longing for something 
that would satisfy his desire in that direction ; 
so, nearly worn out, he had dropped to sleep, 
despite his thirst. When he woke up there was 
present the same burning thirst. 


UP THE RIVER. 


22 7 


The attendant carried the basin of water 
and the towel away, and presently returned with 
a glass. Theodore heard him before he had 
reached his cot. He did not hear the attendant 
walking; for he wore soft slippers, and passed 
in and out of the ward noiselessly ; but he heard 
that which was to him the sweetest sound he 
could remember of ever having heard. It was 
the tinkling of the pieces of ice in the glass of 
water which was being carried to him. When 
the attendant reached his bedside, he assisted 
him to arise, his arm about his neck, and held 
him up while Theodore sipped gratefully the re- 
freshing drink, which somehow had been clar- 
ified, and was not the muddy water which he 
supposed would come up from the Mississippi 
River. 

He lay back on his pillow and began to feel 
ashamed of himself. He felt so much better 
than he had two hours before, that he was will- 
ing to upbraid himself for having left his com- 
rades when he was only a little sick. He felt 
of his own pulse, and said, “ I have no fever.” 
He put his hand under the cover, and stretched 
it down, and rubbed his sore leg to see how 
much pressure it would stand without giving 
him pain, and because he pressed it so hard and 
he did not flinch, he said, “I am not lame.” 
He then tried to raise himself, and he found that 


228 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


he could sit erect in his cot without much effort. 
Then his thoughts turned toward the camp, and 
he pictured the boys in their narrow limits on 
their hard bunks, and said, “ What a wretch I am, 
just because a little sick, to leave them and come 
here with all these nice surroundings!” 

After sitting up and meditating in this way 
awhile, he said, speaking, however, aloud, so 
that the man who occupied the cot next to him 
supposed he was talking to him: “It can not 
be helped now.” Slipping down, he buried his 
face in his pillow, and drew the covers up over 
his shoulders; for, though it was midsummer, 
he felt chilly, and began to wonder why they 
had not closed that window in the forward part 
of the ward, and why they had not closed that 
door, for he was shivering with cold; and de- 
spite his efforts to keep quiet he continued to 
shiver, and would shake violently until his teeth 
chattered and until the cot itself trembled under 
the motion of his body. 

While he was enduring the agonies of this 
chill the attendant returned, and going up to 
Theodore, who had drawn the covers tight 
around him, and partly covered his head, put 
his hand on Theodore’s brow, and said sooth- 
ingly, and yet as if there was something of 
liuinorousness in the sight : 

“You seem to be a little cold.” 


UP THE RIVER. 229 

“A little cold,” said Theodore ; “there is no 
little about it, I am freezing !” 

“Just as I expected,” said the attendant. 
“Just be patient, my friend ; you will not freeze ; 
and if I am not mistaken, before the lamps are 
lighted, you will be wanting a little of this 
freezing business.” 

“May be so,” said Theodore; “but just now 
I believe I could sit in a tub of boiling water.” 

“All right,” said the attendant, smiling. 
“Just be patient. About an hour from now you 
will be in a tub of boiling water.” 

“How is that?” said Theodore, shaking so 
he could scarcely talk. 

“ I can ’t explain it to you,” said the attend- 
ant, “only you wait. You will think this is the 
hottest boat you ever saw, and that this is the 
hottest night — for it will be night about that 
time — and instead of wanting another blanket 
you will not want anything. However, I ’ll be 
with you, and we ’ll see.” And with this, the 
attendant went on, leaving Theodore to his chill. 

By and by he became quiet, and thought he 
was getting the mastery of the disease. He 
could now peep out from under the cover without 
his teeth chattering ; he actually could turn the 
cover down from off his shoulder, and not be 
afraid that he would freeze. But while he was 
getting warm and comfortable, there seemed to 


230 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


be iron bands clasped around bis head, with a 
thumb-screw attachment, which some fiend was 
vigorously tightening ; and when the bands had 
been contracted until they would crush his 
skull, he imagined that the same power had as 
quickly let loose the screws so that the bands 
expanded to their fullest extent, and his head, 
in attempting to follow the receding bands, was 
swelling to an enormous size. When the utmost 
tension of the skull had been reached, the evil 
spirit again clasped the bands, and began the 
process of reducing the size of his head by turn- 
ing up the screws. He was sure that if he 
could only get hold of the bands, or get hold of 
the fiend, or in some way reach out and take 
hold of something that was present but invisi- 
ble, that he could shake himself rid of this tor- 
ment. By and by he imagined that the evil 
spirit had become tired of tormenting him, and 
had gone away, leaving the bands pushed up 
tight, to the utmost extent of the thumb-screws ; 
and then some other spirit, or spirits, took pos- 
session of him, and dropped him into a hammock 
which was stretched on long ropes from tall 
poles, and that they were vigorously swinging 
him from side to side, tormenting him, at every 
push or pull of the hammock, with the fear that 
it would overturn, and he should be dropped 
into a fathomless abyss. 


UP THE RIVER. 


231 


And thus he lay, and thought, and suffered, 
apparently wide awake, conscious of everything ; 
and yet he was not, for by and by another 
gentle shake of his shoulder aroused him, and he 
opened his eyes to find the lights burning brightly 
all around, while by his side stood a white- 
aproned waiter, with a tray full of what, under 
other circumstances, would have been very 
tempting food. But as soon as Theodore saw it 
he waved him away with his hands ; for he could 
not endure the thought of food, much less had 
he any desire to eat. 

Then he knew that he had been asleep, and 
that what had occurred to him was but the 
imagination of a fevered brain. He closed his 
eyes, and again he was swung back and forth 
in his hammock ; and there came to him a 
voice saying, with a pause between the words, 
as if waiting for him to come down from his 
upward swing each time : 

‘ ‘ Say — comrade — what — did — you — do — 
that — for?” 

Theodore made no reply, but remained with 
his eyes closed, swaying back and forth, won- 
dering when such peculiar sensations would 
cease ; for he was really swinging in his thought, 
and as really to him as though he had actually 
been in a hammock. He supposed the words to 
be some imagined remarks by some unreal per- 


232 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

son, and made no reply to them. After a 
moment he heard again : 

‘ ‘ I say — comrade — what — did — you — do — 
that — for?” 

This time he opened his eyes, not because 
he expected to see anybody, but hoping that in 
that way he might dispel the strange illusion. 
As he did so, he caught the eager gaze of the 
man who occupied the bunk next to him, who 
was half reclining, supporting himself on his 
elbow, his neck stretched out, and his head 
forward over the edge of the cot. 

“Have you been asleep?” he said. 

“No,” said Theodore, “I have not been.” 

“Well, why can’t you answer a fellow?” he 
asked, with some show of impatience. 

“ I never heard you speak to me,” said 
Theodore. 

“I have been talking to you for the last five 
minutes, and you never said a word.” 

“Excuse me,” said Theodore, “I did not 
hear you.” 

“Well, I say, what did you do that for?” 

“Do what?” said Theodore, in surprise, with 
great effort keeping his eyes open, and with a 
greater effort keeping his mind straight 

“Why, you sent away everything that was 
brought you by the attendant to eat, and never 
touched it.” 


UP THE RIVER. 


233 

“I know it,” said Theodore; “I did not 
want it.” 

“Well, there is lots of ns fellows that do 
want it,” he said ; and then lay down on his 
pillow with an expression of great disappoint- 
ment on his face. After a moment he lifted 
himself up, Theodore the meanwhile having 
been watching him, and said : 

“The next time take it whether you want it - 
or not. I will eat it !” 

“All right,” said Theodore; “the next time 
I will tell them to give it to you.” 

“No, don’t you do that,” the man said, has- 
tily; “keep it yourself, and then I will eat it 
when they are gone.” 

Theodore did n’t know whether the man was 
in earnest and knew what he was saying, or 
whether he was delirious ; so he turned over in 
his cot and faced the other way, and this time 
met the gaze of another comrade, who seemed 
to be in better spirits, and also more self-pos- 
sessed than the other. He said to Theodore: 

“What has that fellow been talking to you 
about?” 

“Theodore said, evasively: “O, I don’t 
know.” 

“Been asking you for something to eat, 
has n’t he ?” 

“Yes,” said Theodore. 

20 


234 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


“Well, he beats all the sick folks I ever saw,” 
said the man, not caring whether the comrade 
in the farther bunk heard him or not; “he eats 
all they bring him, and begs all he can get 
from the rest of the fellows.” 

“Well, he is welcome to all of mine,” said 
Theodore. 

“That is not it,” said the comrade. “The 
doctors won’t let him have much if they know it. 
They say that he has a disease that gives him 
an enormous appetite, and it only makes him 
worse to eat.” 

Theodore was tired and drowsy, and closed 
his eyes again; and immediately there began to 
march before him a procession of soldiers, very 
much like the one who had w T akened him to ask 
his share of the food, all begging him most pit- 
eously to give them something 1 6 eat, while he 
had nothing to give. How long this dream or 
trance lasted he could not say, but after awhile 
he awoke. He knew the fever was gone, for the 
inevitable sweating process had commenced ; 
he found the very pillow wet where the per- 
spiration had rolled off his face before he had 
wakened. 

Three days after he embarked on the boat — 
having in the meantime heard the attendants 
talk about being at Memphis, then at Colum- 
bus, Kentucky, then at Cairo, Illinois, and then 


UP THE RIVER. 


235 


at other points on the Mississippi River — the 
boat stopped ; and he judged from the bustle all 
around, and the preparations which were being 
made to remove the patients, that they had 
reached their journey’s end. And so they had ; 
for the boat was tied up at the wharf at Jefferson 
Barracks, Missouri. 





Chapter 


IN COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. 


V HEODORE was assisted by two attendants 



to dress himself and to get down the stairs 


and out upon the levee. Here he found a large 
number of ambulances had come down to the 
water’s edge, awaiting the coming of the sick 
soldiers. Such of them as were able to walk 
were marched up the levee, and proceeded afoot 
to the hospital. Such as were too sick to walk, 
or were injured in such a way as that they could 
not, were put into the ambulances, which filed 
off, one after another up the levee, and into the 
spacious grounds of Jefferson Barracks. 

As they rode along over the smooth road- 
ways, Theodore, looking out from the rear of the 
ambulance, as he leaned against the driver’s seat 
in the forward part, was charmed with the 
sight. In the first place, there was an air of 
spaciousness. The roadways were broad and 
smooth ; the walks, which followed the roadways 
for the most part, sometimes traversed green 


236 


IN C OMFOR TABLE QUARTERS. 


237 


swards, and were also broad and substantially 
built. The trees were large, massive, with wide- 
spreading branches, carefully trimmed and bur- 
dened with abundance of foliage, which was 
just beginning to turn under the first breaths 
of cool autumn nights. Beneath the trees, and 
bounded by the various driveways, were hand- 
some lawns, in which were found large beds of 
beautiful flowers. 

As the ambulance rolled slowly along, Theo- 
dore saw the spacious quarters allotted for the 
various departments, — handsome frame houses 
for the use of the officers, large buildings for the 
accommodation of various supplies, and every- 
thing which would betoken liberality and gen- 
erous views on the part of the Government in 
providing a home for soldiers, and especially 
for the sick. 

By and by the ambulance stopped, and Theo- 
dore was assisted to alight. When he had done 
so, he found himself standing upon a porch, 
across the front of a one-story board house. He 
was led around the corner of this house, and saw 
that the porch extended down the whole length 
of it, and the further end seemed at such a 
great distance from him, that it tired him to 
think of having to walk its length. He turned 
aside, however, and was led into the building. 

Where he stood were tables and chairs, cases 


238 7HE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

of medicines, various kinds of cups, waiters, 
pitchers, and glasses ; while before him stretched 
out two long rows of cots, similar to those he 
had seen on the boat. The interior of this 
building was painted white. The ceiling was 
white. The beds were dressed in white. The 
only relief to the whiteness of everything in 
sight were the black iron bedsteads, and the 
walnut-colored chairs and stools. 

He was led down the aisle between the cots, 
which stood, as on the boat, foot to foot, the 
heads against opposite walls of the building, 
each cot occupying a space between windows ; 
for there were as many windows as cots, that 
there might be, as occasion demanded, abun- 
dance of light or fresh air. The windows were 
all provided with heavy curtains, which could 
be lowered or raised at pleasure, to modify the 
degree of light required. 

As on the boat, so here, he was assigned to a 
cot, and assisted to disrobe and to get into the 
bed. After all, this was a pleasant change. The 
motion of the boat, during the three days that 
he had been on the vessel, was monotonous and 
wearisome, as also was the constant “ puff, puff” 
of the escaping steam. Here he was at rest. 
He did not like to admit it, and yet, as he 
thought of himself, he knew that while it was 
good for him to be there, yet he was far weaker 


IN COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. 239 

than when he left Helena. It was with diffi- 
culty that he stood on his feet ; and not only 
the fact that he had eaten but very little during 
the time of his trip up the river would indicate 
that he had lost flesh, but he could tell that 
from the appearance of his hands, which usually 
had been plump and strong ; but now he could 
gather the skin into a fold on the back, and his 
fingers began to look bony. He wondered how 
his face looked. It had been a long time since 
he had seen his own face, for they had had no 
looking-glasses. 

Soon after he had nestled down into his bed, 
and was hoping to get into a quiet doze — for he 
felt sleepy — an attendant came to him, with 
several cards in his hand and a pencil over his 
ear, and, arousing him, said apologetically al- 
most, but very kindly: 

“Excuse me, but I must have your name.” 

“Theodore Tompkins.” 

“What is your regiment and company?” 

“ 143d, Company C.” 

“Where is your home?” 

For a moment Theodore did not reply. He 
did not know what to say; but remembering 
the name of the town where Jenkins usually 
went to trade, he supposed he might call that 
home ; so he said : 

“Oconee, Illinois.” 


240 THE COLONELS CHARGE . 

“What is your father’s name?” 

“I have no father.” 

“What is your mother’s name?” 

“I have no mother.” 

“What is the name of your next friend?” 

Instantly Theodore remembered that this 
was a question exactly like the one asked him, 
as they were starting South, by Colonel Smith. 
He was quick to see that it would not do now, 
as then, to answer this question by saying that 
Babbitt was his next friend; so, acting on the 
impulse of the moment, relying upon what Bab- 
bitt had told him just before they had separated 
at Helena, and believing that he was safe in do- 
ing so, he said : 

“B. H. Carl” (Babbitt’s father). 

The man had written his answers on a card, 
and asking Theodore the post-office address of 
his next friend, he wrote that upon the card; 
then, reaching over, put the card into a bracket 
on the wall, made to receive it, just above The- 
odore’s head, and then turned and left. 

When he had gone, Theodore reached up 
and took the card out, and read it over and 
looked at it intently for some moments ; and as 
he did so he realized that something had been 
gained in any event ; for he had deliberately 
written there the name of one as his next friend 
who he supposed would, if occasion required, 


IN COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. 241 

take the place of his parents; and in his heart 
he believed that Babbitt’s father would do so. 
He replaced the card in the bracket, and, with 
a contentment which he had not known before, 
he fell into sleep. 

Night came and passed. During the night, 
however, he had been carefully examined by 
the surgeon in charge, and proper treatment 
prescribed for him. He remembered distinctly 
the surgeon coming to his cot, making the . ex- 
amination, turning down the cover and looking 
at his leg ; but he could not remember any- 
thing after that. Whether he had been asleep 
or simply unconscious he did not know ; but 
those who had waited on him during the night 
knew he had slept but very little, but had talked 
almost constantly. 

When the morning came, however, he was 
quite himself* again, and could understand per- 
fectly where he was and why he was there. 
That day he watched the proceedings about 
him with very much of interest. He remem- 
bered that at the further end of the ward— for 
the building in which he was was only one of 
the wards of the hospital, which was large 
enough to accommodate hundreds and even 
thousands of soldiers — was a clock, which 
ticked softly the minutes as they slipped by, 
and at every quarter announced the flight of 
21 


242 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

time in almost muffled tones, and yet so dis- 
tinct as to be heard anywhere in the ward. 
Never did the clock announce the quarter — so 
Theodore thought — that one or more attendants 
did not get up from the table where they were 
sitting, and, in slippered feet, as noiselessly as 
possible, hasten down the aisle and go to some 
cot to administer some remedy to the patient. 

They came to him frequently, and waited 
on him as carefully as a brother could. Most 
of the attendants were men. Some of them, 
however, were ladies, with their uniform of 
white caps, white aprons, and dresses of some 
contrasting material. 

As far as Theodore could judge of his own 
feelings and condition, he was not very sick. 
Indeed, he was beginning to have less and less 
of pain, and more and more a desire for sleep. 
As the attendants and physicians looked upon 
him, the very reverse was true so far as his ill- 
ness was concerned; for they considered him 
in a very critical condition. There were hours 
during which he would apparently be asleep, 
and so soundly asleep that it was with difficulty 
that he was aroused to take the prescribed med- 
icines. These periods of stupor were to him 
hours of most pleasant repose, followed with 
visions of everything that was good and lovely. 
The only distressing feature about his dreams 


IN COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. 243 

was, that he was ever on the verge of happi- 
ness, but never quite reaching it. His condi- 
tion was such that he made no note of the lapse 
of time, nor did he reckon the coming and going 
of day or night. The only division of time 
which he made was that of awake and asleep. 
When awake or fully aroused, he was conscious 
of all his surroundings ; but when in one of the 
stupors which came so frequently, he was prac- 
tically as if under the influence of an opiate. 
It was during one of these that his limb was 
examined and dressed by the physician in at- 
tendance. 

At one time, when he was aroused from his 
unconscious condition by a vigorous shaking 
and calling of the attendant, he opened his eyes, 
and saw bending over him the face of one that 
attracted his attention by its very motherliness ; 
but he was unable to keep his eyes open or to 
hold that image before his mind, and it became 
to him a dream. After the lapse of what seemed 
hours, he again was aroused, and was awakened 
sufficiently to hear his name mentioned and 
some other names mentioned, and some voices 
in conversation ; and he looked upon a face that 
was younger and fairer, but not kindlier, than 
the one which he had seen before. There was 
a strong effort on his part to give heed to what 
was said, and to keep the face before his eyes; 


244 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE . 


but be drifted off into a dream of homes which 
he had often pictured in his boyhood as being 
the possible home of his parents. 

After this he could recollect but little, ex- 
cepting the frequent attempts of the attendant 
to administer medicines, and his frequent efforts 
to take the prescribed remedies, though there 
came to him always the recollection of the bit- 
terness of the doses which were given him. 

One day, however, he opened his eyes, and 
was surprised and pleased to see sitting by his 
cot, watching him with intense interest, a lady 
whose face was very much like one of the faces 
he had seen so long, long ago. He was de- 
lighted that he could keep his eyes open, and 
that they did not involuntarily close as before. 
He was pleased because the lady did not vanish 
from his vision, as she had done the other time ; 
and, though she said not a word, he could tell 
by the tenderness of the expression of her eyes 
that she was watching him with anxiety. 

The lady was as much pleased as Theodore 
that his eyes did not close again, as they had so 
often done, and that there did not follow the 
heavy breathing and the deep stupor which had 
prevailed so long. She ventured to say, as his 
eyes looked into hers: 

“Do you know me?” 

Theodore attempted to speak. He did not 


IN COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. 245 

know why he could not speak ; but he wondered 
if the voice he heard was his voice, when he 
said, in tones that were not his own, as far as he 
could recollect, but weak and uncertain, as if 
uttered by a tongue thick and almost paralyzed : 

“I don’t know you.” 

“No, I suppose not,” the lady said, cheer- 
fully and brightly, at the same time reaching 
out her hand to stroke his hair. She did not 
know whether it was best to make herself known 
to him then, to tell him all that she knew; so, 
as her eyes filled with tears, and even overrun 
and wet her face with their dropping, she said : 
“I am so glad; but go to sleep now, my dear. 
After awhile we will talk some more.” 

Just as she said this, some one else came 
softly, with hands clasped before her, and, stop- 
ping by the side of the lady, who looked up 
into her face, with joy in every lineament of her 
countenance, said : 

“Does he know you?” 

“He is* better; he will know me,” said the 
lady, and then turning towards Theodore, said, 
as he gazed in wonder, unable to determine why 
he should have been spoken to as he had been, 
or why the lady should have stroked his head : 
“Be quiet just a little while longer, and we 
will see.” 

Theodore was so glad that he was strong 


246 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

enough to think and act for himself, that he was 
glad to shut his eyes and see if he could open 
them again ; so he made as if he would go to 
sleep, but frequently his eyelids would open, 
and he would glance at the lady, who still sat 
by his cot, watching him intently ; and when 
he did so, he found that she would frequently 
brush a tear from her eye, and that occasionally 
she would bite her lips, as if to suppress some 
strong emotion. 

As he lay there quietly, seemingly without 
pain, he lifted his own hand and looked at it. 
He never had seen it so thin and pale. He put 
his hand to his forehead to brush back his hair, 
and was startled by the very apparent boniness 
of his own hand, as it moved over his forehead. 
Then he would turn and look at the watcher. 
Whoever she might be, he felt certain that he 
never had seen a lovelier face, and had never 
known a tenderer expression. Very soon the 
lady was joined by one of the attendants of the 
hospital, and together they whispered some- 
thing, and they exchanged glances, looking oc- 
casionally toward Theodore, who might have 
heard if he had exerted himself, but who did 
not care to hear, nor did they seem inclined 
to talk to him, but were evidently overjoyed 
that he could hear or could talk if it was nec- 
essary. 


IN COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. 247 

When the attendant had gone, Theodore’s 
lady friend came close to his cot, and again gently 
stroking his head, pushing her fingers through 
his hair, said : 

“Are you quite comfortable?” 

“ O yes,” he said, “ almost too comfortable.” 

Though her eyes were again swimming in 
tears, she could not refrain from smiling at this 
queer way of putting it, and she said : 

“ How can you be too comfortable?” 

“ I do n’t know,” said Theodore feebly, his 
tongue almost refusing to act as he talked, giv- 
ing his utterance an indistinctness which was 
wholly unnatural for him, “but this seems like 
as if it could n’t last always ?” 

“ What seems like as if it could n’t last al- 
ways?” she said slowly, repeating his words 
exactly. 

“All this,” Theodore said, lifting his hand 
and extending it as if to take in all of his sur- 
roundings. 

“ O, I hope not,” said the lady. “ We all 
hope not.” 

Then Theodore looked at her with a puz- 
zled countenance, and she read in his expression 
the question which was in his mind, so she said : 

“ We do not want you to stay here always.” 

Theodore was determined to make a direct 
cut to the expression of the thought which was 


248 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


in his mind. He was not particularly concerned 
about the hospital, nor about the comfortable cot, 
nor about the attendants ; but some way there 
had suddenly sprung up in his heart a desire that 
he should not be separated from the face which 
had first come to him in his dreams, he thought, 
and which now bent over him with all the solici- 
tude of a mother, or at least of a sister ; so he said : 

“ I would like for all of this to last always.” 

“ O no,” said his watcher, “ it would not be 
well for you ; but there are better things for 
you when you are strong enough.” 

Theodore shook his head, and with a great 
effort, said — for, for the time, there had passed 
from his mind a recollection of his bright hopes 
and the prospects which had sprung up in his 
heart on account of the colonel’s offer, and he 
thought only of the old home in the Flat Woods 
down by Oconee: 

“ I do n’t want to go away from here.” Then 
he paused and wondered if he dared say what 
was in his heart to say, and finally mumbled, 
though he made a great effort to speak it dis- 
tinctly: “ I do n’t want to go away — from — you.” 

“ From me !” said the lady in surprise, clasping 
both of her hands. “ What do you know of me ?” 

Theodore looked at her intently a moment, 
and again shaking his head, slowly said : 

“ Nothing — everything — nothing.” 


IN COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. 249 

He did not understand his own feelings. He 
seemed to know, and yet he could not tell what 
he did know. He lifted one of his feeble and 
pale emaciated hands as if he would touch her 
dress. She quickly divined his purpose, and 
clasped his hand in both of hers, and coming a 
little closer, pressed it to her heart, and when 
she could restrain her emotion sufficiently, said : 

“ You do not need ever to be separated from 
me, unless you want to.” 

His eyes brightened at this, and his pale 
face was slightly flushed, but he could not under- 
stand. He had no idea to whom he was speaking. 
The only thought in his mind was that he seemed 
to be at rest, and he seemed to have found some 
one who really cared for him, and who could 
reciprocate the great love which he felt. 

“ Do you know who I am ?” the lady asked 
again. 

“No,” said Theodore. “Yes — no — yes.” 

She understood from this that he was uncer- 
tain, and she wondered if she would dare, while 
his strength was so feeble, his condition so crit- 
ical, to say or do anything which might shock 
him, which might cause a relapse ; and while 
she thought of this, she ventured to say : 

“ Who do you think I am ?” 

She was quite as much surprised by the an- 
swer as Theodore himself was by the thought 


250 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


which flashed upon him in an instant, for he 
said : 

“An angel!” 

“No,” she said, smiling, “not so, not so; 
but would you, Theodore, like for me to be a 
sister to you ?” 

All this time she had held his hand in both 
hers. He did not reply, but his head dropped 
to one side on the pillow, and he closed his eyes, 
the meanwhile, however, closing his fingers over 
her hand nervously and tightly. 

“ I understand,” she said softly, resuming her 
seat on the stool by the cot, at the same time 
holding his hand, and occasionally stroking it 
gently with one of hers. “ We must not talk 
any more. Can ’t you go to sleep ? I will sit 
right by you.” 

Theodore opened his eyes and gazed at her 
silently for a moment, and then said : 

“ Yes, but will you wake me up before you 
go away ?” 

“ O yes,” she said earnestly, “ I will wake 
you up before I go away.” And then, as if she 
would comfort him to the very utmost of her 
ability, she said : “ I will not go away without 
taking you with me.” 

Theodore closed his eyes, and it seemed 
that he was asleep; but after a few moments he 
opened them again, and said, while the lady 


I IV COMFORTABLE QUARTERS. 251 

smiled on him with unusual interest and af- 
fection : 

“ I surely have seen you somewhere.” 

“Perhaps so,” she said brightly. “Indeed, 
I almost know so, but then you had better go to 
sleep, and we will talk more about this after 
awhile.” 

Theodore did not reply to this, but steadily 
gazed at his attendant, and seemed to exert 
himself to recollect some time or place when he 
had seen her. After awhile he said : 

“I know where now — I have just thought 
of it !” 

“ Well?” she said, awaiting his reply. 

“ I have seen you twice.” 

He hesitated as if to make sure that he was 
right, and then asked : 

“Has not Colonel Smith your picture?” 

The lady almost laughed aloud, and said: 

“Certainly; he has my picture. Did he 
show it to you?” 

Theodore smiled and nodded. 

“Where else did you see me?” she ques- 
tioned. 

“Didn’t I see you before we went South?” 

“ I think so,” she said. “ But you must be 
quiet now. I am afraid you are talking too much. ’ ’ 

“No,” said Theodore. “It rests me to talk 
to you. I like to look at you.” 


252 


THE COLONELS CHARGE . 


“Very well, very well,” she said, as if she 
would quiet him. “I will stay right here by you, 
and you will have a long, long time to look at 
me when you are better.” 

Theodore eagerly followed every movement 
she made. Finally he said : 

“Then you are the colonel’s sister?” 

“Yes,” she said, “I am. Did you know he 
sent word to me to come here to see you?” 

“No,” said Theodore, interestedly, “I did 
not know.” 

“Well, he did,” she said. “Did you know 
there were other friends here to see you when 
I came?” 

“No,” Theodore said. “Yet it seems like as 
if I dreamed I saw somebody.” 

“It was not a dream,” she answered; “it 
was real. Babbitt’s mother was here, and his 
father.” 

Theodore’s heart was touched by this news, 
and he hid his face a moment in the pillow ; 
and when he lifted his eyes again to hers, she 
saw that they were wet from weeping. She un- 
derstood his thought and knew something of 
his feeling, so she reached out her hand and 
again gently stroked his head and face, and told 
him to be quiet if he could sleep again, for she 
would surely waken him after he had rested 
awhile. 


Chapter 

A FORTUNATE MEETING. 

T HE letters written by the colonel and by 
Babbitt reached their destination at about 
the same time, and also the day after the hos- 
pital boat had tied up at the wharf at Jefferson 
Barracks. 

The colonel’s sister lost no time in making 
preparations for an immediate visit to the hos- 
pital. She was not a stranger to such a place, 
having spent several days with her brother 
while he was under treatment after the battle 
of Shiloh, and before he came home. She knew 
what she should see, and what to do in order to 
. find the soldier she was looking for. 

Babbitt’s letter to his father was read and 
re-read, and a consultation called among the 
friends. There was no question but that Mr. 
Carl would go at once to see what could be 
done for the comfort of the boy more than the 
hospital authorities were doing ; but whether 
Mrs. Carl should go with him, or whether Miss 

253 


254 


THE COLONELS CHARGE . 


Laura should accompany him, was undecided. 
It seemed, because of Mrs. Jacobus’s presence 
at her home, it would be best for Mrs. Carl to 
remain, while Miss Laura should go. 

“I am perfectly willing and even anxious to 
go,” Miss Laura said, when talking about it ; 
“but it may be that you, Mrs. Carl, could do 
so much more for the boy than I.” 

“I doubt not,” said Mr. Carl, “that Theo- 
dore would be glad to see any of us under the 
circumstances, and would not be very choice as 
to which one it was.” 

“I should be glad to go,” said Mrs. Carl, 
“ except for Jakey’s mother. I can not leave 
her, and I can not send her away.” 

For some time they discussed the matter, 
trying to arrive at the conclusion which would 
be best for all concerned. Finally Miss Laura 
settled it by saying: 

“You go, Mrs. Carl. It is proper you should. 
As for Mrs. Jacobus, she can come to our house. 
It is really the best place for her, if I do say it 
myself ; for we have an abundance of help and 
plenty of room, and she can just as well be 
there as here, and better ; so you go, and I will 
take all the responsibility of looking after 
Jakey’s mother.” 

The matter being settled in this way, the 
rest of the afternoon and the night was spent 


A FORTUNATE MEETING. 


255 


in hasty preparation for the trip to the hospital. 
At noon the next day Mr. Carl and his wife and 
Miss Laura were at the depot, where the former 
took the cars for St. Louis, intending to go from 
there to the hospital, Miss Laura already having 
performed her part of the contract by transfer- 
ring Mrs. Jacobus to her own home. 

The day passed without incident, and toward 
evening they found themselves in St. Louis, at 
the Carondelet depot, waiting for the outgoing 
train to Jefferson Barracks. They had noticed 
on the train down from home a young lady that 
they seemed to have met before, as her face was 
familiar. They also observed that when they 
arrived at Bast St. Louis, she got off the cars and 
took the same ’bus that they had, and together 
they rode across the river on the ferry and then 
to the depot. When they got on the cars at Ca- 
rondelet depot for the hospital, the same lady 
was observed to take a seat not far from them. 
When she reached the depot at Jefferson Bar- 
racks, she alighted just ahead of Mr. and Mrs. 
Carl, and, with the air of one who seemed to 
know just what to do and how to do it, she has- 
tened away. 

Mr. Carl and his wife, however, unaccus- 
tomed to such places and such duties, were 
obliged to make inquiries, first of one and then 
of* another, as to how they could reach the hos- 


256 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


pital at the barracks. They finally obtained the 
desired information, were furnished with the 
proper passes, and started out in search of The- 
odore. 

They were directed to Ward “K,” and im- 
mediately hastened there. They gave the name 
of the party that they were seeking, and one of 
the attendants led them down the aisle to the 
cot occupied by Theodore. They were sur- 
prised to find sitting by his side the very lady 
who had come down on the train with them, 
had crossed the river with them in the same 
’bus, had come to the barracks, and disappeared 
from them on the platform of the depot. She 
arose as they came to the cot and stopped, 
and, glancing at Theodore and then at them, 
said : 

“A friend of yours?” 

“Yes,” Mr. Carl said; “or, rather, a friend 
of my son, and a friend of my son is my friend. 
And is he a friend of yours ?” Mr. Carl asked in 
return. 

“Yes,” said the lady; “he is a friend of my 
brother’s, and that makes him my friend.” 

“And is he asleep?” asked Mrs. Carl. 

“Yes, asleep. We roused him once, but he 
staid awake only a few minutes — scarcely a 
minute, really. I have been waiting here hoping 
that he would recover from the stupor in which 


A FOR T UNA TE MEETING. 257 

he seems to be ; but my waiting so far has been 
in vain.” 

The attendant, who bad stood by during this 
conversation, now walked up to the bedside 
where Theodore lay, and, shaking him gently 
yet vigorously by the shoulder, called his name 
repeatedly. There seemed to be an effort on the 
part of Theodore to awaken. His eyes would 
open partly, and close again ; his lips would move 
as if to speak, and then he would settle down 
again into a deeper slumber. 

Mrs. Carl came near 011 the other side of the 
cot from the attendant, and, leaning over, called 
him by name, and said : 

“Theodore, do n’t you remember Babbitt?” 

It seemed as if his eyes would open at that, 
but they did not. Encouraged by this sign, she 
placed her hand upon his shoulder, and shook 
him, and said again : 

“Theodore, don’t you remember Babbitt? 
Wouldn’t you like to see Babbitt’s mother?” 

There was just a suspicion of a smile on 
Theodore’s face as these words were uttered, 
and Mrs. Carl persisted, supposing that she 
could very soon arouse him. 

“ Theodore, Babbitt’s mother wants to speak 
to you ; won’t you open your eyes ?” 

He did open his eyes then, and looked 
at her. 


258 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


She smiled into his face ; but again the eyes 
were closed, and the heavy stupor came on. 

“ He looked at me,” said Mrs. Carl, turning 
to the lady. 

“O, did he?” she said. “I wish he would 
look at me.” 

Then she got up and took Mrs. Carl’s place, 
and shaking him, said: 

“ Theodore, do you remember the colonel ?” 

At these words Mrs. Carl and her husband 
exchanged knowing looks, and turned their gaze 
intently upon the lady. Theodore actually 
bowed his head once or twice, as if assenting to 
that remark. 

“ Theodore,” she said earnestly, again shak- 
ing him a little more vigorously, “ would you 
not like to see the colonel’s sister?” 

And again his eyes opened, and as he looked 
at her he smiled, and she smiled upon him ; and 
again he sank into a stupor, from which it was 
impossible to arouse him. After vainly trying to 
awaken him, Miss Smith turned aside — for it 
was she — and met the gaze of Mr. and Mrs. Carl. 

“And you are Babbitt’s mother?” she said, 
extending both hands. 

“ Yes,” Mrs. Carl said; “ and you, I suppose, 
are Colonel Smith’s sister?” 

“Yes,” Miss Smith said. 

Then Mr. Carl reached out his hand and 


A FORTUNATE MEETING. 259 

grasped the colonel’s sister’s hand. Pressing it 
warmly, he said : 

“ I am so glad to see yon. I am glad you 
are here, for surely this poor boy needs all the 
attention we can give.” 

“ He does seem to be in an almost hopeless 
condition,” said Miss Smith. “ What can we 
do for him?” 

“ I do n’t know,” said Mrs. Carl, “ but I am 
willing to stay and do all I can. Of course, I 
do not know much about him ; but for Babbitt’s 
sake we have come here to see him, and for his 
sake we w T ill do all in our power to be done.” 

“ Of course,” said Miss Smith, talking low, 
“ you know some of the circumstances, if not all, 
that have made my brother and myself such 
w r arm friends of this soldier.” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Carl, “ I know all of the cir- 
cumstances; but without that, if you knew all 
of the facts connected with this boy, I am sure 
you would be interested in him, even though he 
had done nothing to merit your love and favor.” 

While they were talking thus, an attendant 
came to them, and said : 

“I beg your pardon, ladies, but it will be 
necessary for you to withdraw to the reception- 
room if you wish to talk to each other.” 

“ O, excuse me,” said Miss Smith; “of course 
I know that I am disturbing others around.” 


260 the colonels charge. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Carl, “it was 
unintentional.” 

“ I understand,” the attendant said apolo- 
getically; “ I knew that you simply needed to 
be told of a place where you might retire. If 
you wish, I will lead the way.” 

So they followed him out of the ward, across 
one of the green swards into a room near the 
office of the chief surgeon, and there they sat 
and talked. 

Naturally enough, Mr. Carl told Miss Smith 
all he knew of Theodore’s antecedents, and re- 
lated with much particularity the account which 
had been given him by Mrs. Jenkins, including 
the story of the golden chain and locket. 

Miss Smith had in her possession the letter 
which the colonel had written her, and which 
inclosed the one that Babbitt had found in the 
hospital at Helena. This she handed to Mr. 
Carl to read, the meantime rising and walking 
the floor nervously. When he had finished read- 
ing the letter and returned it to her, she said : 

“ I never once supposed that my coming to 
this hospital at this time could have awakened 
in me such a flood of recollections of the past. 
I dare not believe, and yet you will not blame me 
when I say that, from what you tell me, and from 
what I know, and what that letter says, that that 
sick soldier is none other than my brother.” 


A FORTUNATE MEETING. 


261 


“Impossible!” said Mrs. Carl impulsively; 
and yet she did not mean that. 

“No,” Miss Smith said, “it is not impos- 
sible; and yet I do not wish to do anything 
rash. It would be better for me to wait, and to 
trace these clues back to their source, or as far 
as possible. My brother and I have had our 
hopes aroused so many times, only to be disap- 
pointed, that I have said that I never would cling 
to any hope again unless it should first prove 
to be well founded.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Carl, “I can appreciate 
your feelings. Tet us look at the evidence as we 
have it now before us, and let us see what there 
is in this to justify us in supposing that Theo- 
dore is your brother. In the first place, you 
know, as your brother knows, that on the night 
preceding that accident, he had your mother’s 
locket attached to the golden chain about his 
neck. Well, Mrs. Jenkins declares that the 
baby that was brought to them had a chain and 
locket about his neck, and I know that I have 
this chain and locket at my home.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Smith eagerly. 

“Well, that fact would go to show — although 
not proving conclusively — would go to show that 
the baby which Mrs. Jenkins found, and the 
baby which was lost on that boat, or supposed 
to be lost on that boat, are one and the same.” 


262 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

“Yes,” said Miss Smith, impulsively again; 
“but” — there had come a doubt in her mind 
just as Mr. Carl had finished talking — “ but 
how do I know that this Theodore, in the hos- 
pital there, sick, is the same child that Mrs. 
Jenkins says her husband got of the fisherman?” 

“O, I see,” said Mr. Carl. “Of course there 
is a possibility of a mistake. It is possible that 
this Theodore is Jenkins’s own child, and that 
the baby which was found was dead when found. 
I see how that might be.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Smith, dejectedly, “it might 
be that way.” 

“And then,” suggested Mrs. Carl, “this let- 
ter which I have just been reading” — for she 
was reading it while the others were talking — 
“clearly states that that baby — for he was 
surely your brother, for this lady refers to your 
father and your mother — was found and was 
cared for by friends in St. Louis.” 

“So it does,” said Miss Smith; “but I am 
sure that that letter, if it does refer to my 
brother — and I believe it does — is mistaken ; 
for I and my brother were on the same boat 
with this lady.” 

“Why, how do you know that?” said Mr. 
Carl. “Do you remember? And how do you 
know who wrote this letter?” 

“Well, I did not remember; but I have been 


A FORTUNATE MEETING . 263 

thinking it over since I read that letter, and I 
remember there was a lady on that boat who 
became quite intimate with mamma; and I re- 
member that I liked her looks, and she seemed 
to think a great deal of me. After my brother 
and I were picked up, I saw the very same lady 
once on the boat, but only once. She was just 
going into her state-room, and I do not remem- 
ber seeing her again.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Carl, “that seems to agree, 
and seems to explain her notion that the baby 
was rescued; for she says she understood from 
the passengers that Mr. Smith’s children were 
found ; and so his children were — you and your 
brother. And it says that the children were 
taken care of by friends in St. Louis ; and so 
they were. You and your brother were cared 
for, as you say.” 

“Yes,” said Miss Smith, “that is it.” 

“O, I know who wrote this letter,” said Mrs. 
Carl, having glanced over it again. “I am sure 
I do. The whole thing comes to me now as 
clear as day. This letter is signed 1 Clara.’ It 
is written to her uncle, and on the back here it 
is addressed to Hon. S. Sebastian ; and, more- 
over, it is dated at Memphis. Now, Babbitt wrote 
to me at Memphis that he saw a lady there who 
knew me when I was a girl; or, rather, saw 
three ladies — the Miss Wilsons. I remember 


264 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

them distinctly. I know one of them was re- 
ported lost in a river disaster. One was named 
Emma, one was Lucy, and one was Clara; and I 
happen to know that their mother’s maiden name 
was Sebastian; so I am very certain that this 
Clara writing to Senator Sebastian is none other 
than Clara Wilson.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Carl, “that is remarkable; 
but, after all, it does not help us in our dilemma. 
We know that Mr. Smith and his family were 
on that boat, and who else was on it makes no 
difference to us now, or who else was saved. 
We know that two of Mr. Smith’s children 
were saved ; we know that there was a baby 
that had a locket and chain when he went to 
sleep in the state-room that night before the 
terrible explosion: Now, here comes Mrs. Jen- 
kins, who says that Theodore was that baby, 
and it would seem to be so ; but how can we 
know ?” 

Miss Smith rose again, having seated her- 
self during this discussion, and, walking up and 
down the room, wrung her hands and said over 
and over again : 

“ If I could but have one little proof that 
this soldier and my baby brother are the same, 
I would be the happiest mortal on earth. One 
little proof is all I ask. He can not tell me ; 
you can not tell me; no one can tell me! How 


A FORTUNATE MEETING . 265 

can I know? O, it seems too hard that I should 
be so near and yet be so far away from the real- 
ization of the hope of my life !” 

“It is indeed very sad, very sad!” said Mr. 
Carl. “And I would like to be able to unravel 
the mystery for you; but it can not be done, 
and I beg of you now to put the matter aside. 
We are here, not because this soldier-boy is your 
brother. We never thought of such a thing 
when we left our home, nor did you.” 

“I know it,” said Miss Smith calmly, again 
seating herself, folding her hands in her lap, 
and looking steadily at the floor; “I know it.” 

“I am here,” Mr. Carl said, “because Bab- 
bitt asked me to come; and I shall do all I can 
for the boy because he is Babbitt’s friend.” 

“I am here,” said Miss Smith, “because he 
is my brother’s friend, and I shall do all I can.” 
Then, as if she had gained the mastery over 
herself, she arose and calmly said: “Let us lay 
the matter aside, and do all that it is our duty 
to do for Theodore, whether he is my brother 
and my mother’s child or not. He is some- 
body’s child and the friend of our friends.” 

“Right nobly said,” said Mr. Carl. “Can 
you stay any time?” he inquired. 

“O yes,” Miss Smith said. “I can stay as 
long as necessary ; there is nothing to call me 
home.” 


2 3 


266 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


“Well, perhaps we had better leave him in 
your hands. I am sure he would be well cared for. 
I could stay, and would stay, only that my wife 
and I have left our house entirely alone, and it 
would be well for one of us to go back as soon 
as possible.” 

“Very well,” said Miss Smith, “I will stay 
and take care of him, or have some one em- 
ployed especially to look after him. It is now 
quite late ; neither of you can return home until 
to-morrow, so suppose we leave the matter 
right where it is. We will find accommodations 
somewhere, I presume, until to-morrow.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Carl, “I want to see him 
again before I go back.” 

“Then,” said Miss Smith, meditatively, “sup- 
pose, as it seems necessary you should return 
home, that you stay over night, and that to- 
morrow you both go back, and I will let you 
know every day or two how he is getting along.” 

So they separated for the night, all three 
going to their own hotel for accommodations. 


■^-r)ygk/o o)v^/(p S ^So)\ckxo«^ N-r^VQp/^^ 

:*\ /^sPSpe^ ryffizrs 


■5 ' oyo ' ' ^yc ' ' 'j\o A r vjo ' ' -vyc 

4 't-HHlljjliiliiininilHiiliiliilii|iii»iii»iii»t»»fi.»>#iiniir | t, l ir'i i»i!i' , i;iiiniii i niiiiiiininininn l ininni.niiiiiiminniiniiiimi; 
/y* •'T* *t* •'T 4 *T* *T* • 7 T^“ *^f s * ^]v# ✓jni *qv* ✓p* •qV «?|\r 


Chapter 

A NEW NAME. 

T HE next day, by previous appointment, 
they met at the hospital. Mrs. CarT took 
with her three of Babbitt’s night-shirts. She 
had not known just what would be proper for 
her to take to minister to the comfort of the 
boy, and she provided such things as she would 
like to have seen provided for her own child. 

After seeing Theodore on his cot, clad in the 
rough woolen shirt which the Government fur- 
nished, she was glad that she had thought of the 
night-robes. So the next day, when they met 
as agreed upon, she asked the attendant if it 
would be in accordance with the rules to have 
the rough and much-soiled flannel shirt removed 
and the night-robe substituted ; he said : 

“Certainly, certainly, there can be no objec- 
tion to that whatever.” 

Then she said : 

“As I am not going to stay, and I can not 

267 


268 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


do much for the boy, I want to put the shirt on 
him myself.” 

“And let me help you,” Miss Smith said. 
“I feel myself it is but little I can do. The 
attendants here are so kind, and watch him so 
closely, that there remains but little for me 
to do.” 

“Very well,” the attendant said, smilingly, 
“do as you please. I am sure you ladies will not 
do anything that will injure him.” 

Mr. Carl, the meantime, had gone out of the 
ward ’to make some inquiries as to what might 
be done from outside for the sick soldier. 

Theodore was wholly unconscious of what 
was going on about him. There had been no 
return of consciousness since the previous day, 
when he had opened his eyes in answer to Mrs. 
Carl’s call. Miss Smith stood on one side of the 
cot, Mrs. Carl on the other. 

“Now, when I lift him up,” said Mrs. Carl, 
putting her strong arms under the shoulders of 
Theodore, and lifting him into a sitting pos- 
ture, leaning over so that his head might drop 
back on her shoulder, “you pull his shirt off that 
arm, and then come around on this side and 
pull it off this arm. Now be quick, if you 
please, so that he will not be chilled.” 

“ O, there is no danger of chilling any one such 
a hot day as this,” said Miss Smith, at the same 


A NEW NAME. 


269 

time obeying Mrs. Carl’s directions, pulling the 
shirt off one arm, and hastening around the cot 
to pull it off the other. 

The night-robe had been opened and spread 
out on the cot, ready to be substituted for the 
shirt. When the flannel shirt was entirely re- 
moved, Theodore’s head dropped over against 
Mrs. Carl’s face. Miss Smith had gathered the 
night-robe into her hands, and was making it 
ready to drop over his head, when Mrs. Carl 
turned her face a little, so that she looked down 
upon Theodore’s shoulders. 

“What a peculiar mark is this!” she said 
without thought. 

“How is that?” said Miss Smith, coming to 
her with the gown in her hand. 

As she was about to put it over the sick sol- 
dier’s head she looked in the direction that Mrs. 
Carl was looking, and immediately sank upon 
her knees by the bedside, leaving the soldier 
unclothed, his night-robe in her hands. She 
buried her face in the cot, and for a moment 
was silent, though convulsed with deepest 
emotion. 

Mrs. Carl was excited and surprised, and 
supposed that Miss Smith had fainted; so she 
called to an attendant who was near to come 
and help. He came, and assisted in putting 
the shirt on Theodore, and helped to replace 


2 JO THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

him on his pillow and to cover him up ; and as 
they did so Miss Smith arose, and, with pale 
face and tearless eyes, looked at the sick soldier 
intently, and then sat down on the stool near 
by and pressed her clasped hands over her 
heart. 

“Are you ill?” said Mrs. Carl, coming to 
her relief. 

“No, not ill,” said Miss Smith. 

“Why, I thought you had fainted.” 

“No, I didn’t faint.” And then, lifting her 
eyes pleadingly to Mrs. Carl, she said: “ O, Mrs. 
Carl, do you think I dare believe it?” 

“Why, Miss Smith,” said Mrs. Carl, anx- 
iously, “believe what? Do you know what you 
are saying?” 

“Yes, yes,” she said, “I know what I am 
saying. Did you not show me that mark on 
Theodore’s back?” 

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Carl; “I am sorry I 
called your attention to it. Those things often 
happen.” 

“Yes, I know,” said Miss Smith, the color 
coming rapidly to her face, her set lips relaxing 
and her eyes sparkling ; “I know they often 
happen; but, Mrs. Carl, do you think I dare 
believe it?” 

“Why, my dear child!” said Mrs. Carl, put- 
ting her arms around Miss Smith and drawing 


A NEW NAME. 


271 


her tenderly to her. The meanwhile Mr. Carl 
had returned, and an attendant had also come 
to see what was the trouble with Miss Smith. 

“Tet me tell you,” she said, and she took 
Mrs. Carl’s arm from around her neck, and, 
clasping both of her hands in hers, she looked 
up at her and said earnestly, “I believe I dare 
believe !” 

“What is that?” Mr. Carl said. “Has some- 
thing unusual happened?” 

“Only this,” said Miss Smith, rising and 
leaning upon Mrs. Carl, while she reached out 
one hand to Mr. Carl, who took it into his — 
“only this: I believe I have the one thing that 
I have longed for to satisfy me that Theodore 
is my brother.” 

“And what is that?” 

“O, if I only dared believe it!” she said 
again as the doubt arose in her mind; “but I 
will tell you. I am foolish, I know ; but I have 
been so often disappointed, and now it seems as 
if I am upon the threshold of the very hap- 
piest hour in my life. If what I believe is true, 
that is not Theodore Tompkins there. There is 
no such person as Theodore Tompkins. That 
is my brother, Oswald Smith !” 

“How so?” said Mr. Carl. “What have you 
discovered?” 

“My brother Oswald,” Miss Smith said, 


272 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE . 

“was a perfect child — the very picture of health, 
bright and beautiful, loved of everybody; marred 
in no respect, either in mind or body, except 
that down between his shoulders was a great 
strip of black hair. My mother said she would 
have given everything if that could be removed 
or never had been there.” And then, as if 
overcome entirely by her feelings, and scarcely 
knowing where she was, Miss Smith clasped 
her hands and lifted her eyes, and said : “ O, 
angel mother! that which you wanted most 
never to have been, surely is that which shall 
bring to your cliildron the greatest joy of their 
lives. I will believe,” she said; “I do believe! 
It can not be otherwise !” And she crept for- 
ward and knelt beside the cot. Reaching out 
both hands, she clasped the pale face of her 
brother, stroked his forehead, and looked at him 
as if she would discover in his face some resem- 
blance to his parents. 

In the mean time Mrs. Carl had drawn near, 
and also the attendant and Mr. Carl. All eyes 
moistened, all hearts were beating in sympathy 
with the sister. Rubbing her hand up over the 
soldier’s forehead and pushing the hair back, 
she examined it critically for a moment, and 
said: “My father’s forehead; I see it now. It 
can not be otherwise.” Bringing her hand down 
gently over his eyes, stroking his nose tenderly, 


A NEW NAME. 


273 


she said: “My father’s nose. It can not be oth- 
erwise.” And then, rising and stooping over 
him, she kissed his lips, and said: “My mother’s 
lips! It can not be that they should not be.” 
Then, arising, she turned to Mr. and Mrs. Carl, 
and said : 

“O what joy will the news of this day’s dis- 
covery bring my brother ! To think that he 
had written for me to come to this place to see 
one who had befriended him in time of danger, 
not knowing that it was his own darling brother 
that was to be cared for ! To think that he 
owes his life, as he has so often written me, to 
the heroic courage of my darling Oswald ! You 
may go,” she said. “I will not go until his 
eyes look into mine and know me — until his 
lips shall speak my name, until his arms shall 
be clasped around my neck! I shall not leave 
this cot. You may go, Mr. Carl, Mrs. Carl — I 
will stay.” 

Without a word, Mrs. Carl came and clasped 
Miss Smith to her arms and kissed her cheek. 
Mr. Carl reached out his hand and clasped 
Miss Smith’s hand warmly, and simply said, 
“Good-bye,” and they bowed themselves out, 
knowing that their charge was safe in the keep- 
ing of his sister. 

Mr. and Mrs. Carl returned to their home; 
and, supposing that Miss Smith would be 


274 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

anxious to have in her own possession the 
locket, at once expressed it to her ; so that 
within three days afterward she had the precious 
trinket in her keeping. Opening it, she feasted 
her eyes upon the picture which it contained — 
the picture of her father. 

She wondered how she could best make her- 
self known to her brother without exciting him 
to such an extent as to cause an aggravation of 
the fever under which he seemed to be wasting 
away. 

For several days, nearly all of the time, ex- 
cept when taking needed rest, she sat by Os- 
wald’s cot waiting for the time to come when 
she could make herself known. Thus the days 
went by, hope and fear alternating as he seemed 
to rally a little, and then sink into apparently a 
greater stupor, for nearly a week refusing to take 
any kind of nourishment, although there was no 
difficulty in administering to him the prescribed 
remedies. 

As soon as she had satisfied herself as to the 
identity of the sick soldier, she had telegraphed 
to her brother as fully as possible the facts 
which she had obtained ; and, as quickly as the 
message could flash across the wires and be de- 
livered to her, came the reply, with the added 
words: “I almost was sure of it myself.” After 
the message came, by the slower movement 


A NEW NAME. 


275 


of the mails, a letter. With these, and with 
the locket, she was waiting by the cot of her 
brother, when he opened his eyes and talked to 
her as has been narrated in a preceding chapter. 
She said nothing more to him that day, but was 
greatly delighted that he manifested such pleas- 
ure in having her near him. Indeed, while she 
sat by his cot he was perfectly quiet, and, if not 
asleep, rested peacefully. 

When she was necessarily away, if he was 
awake, he was very restless, and constantly ask- 
ing the attendant when she would come back. 
He was surprised at his own feelings, and won- 
dered how it was that he did not feel toward her as 
he had felt toward the colonel ; that is, hesitating 
to put himself under obligations, or admitting, for 
a moment, that he was pleased to be with him. 

She did not know that, for many weeks, Os- 
wald had been tormented with the thought 
that he was possibly the colonel’s brother; 
and worried because there had not occurred to 
him any way by which he could surely estab- 
lish his identity, and make them know that 
there was no scheme laid by him to impose on 
them. So, when she had announced herself as 
sister to the colonel, she was somewhat surprised 
to find that the news did not affect the soldier 
as she supposed it would. He was not em- 
barrassed, was no more reserved than before. 


276 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


Indeed, he seemed to be more at ease, if that were 
possible, than he had been before he knew that 
she was the colonel’s sister. 

He seemed so much better the next day 
that she believed — and she was strengthened in 
this belief by the indorsement of the attending 
surgeon — that no evil would result if she would 
make lhiown to Oswald what she was most 
anxious to tell. 

After the morning work had been done 
throughout the hospital, everything cleaned 
around about the cots, breakfast given to such 
as could eat, and other routine matters gone 
through with, Miss Smith sat down by her 
brother, and said : 

“ I have a letter here from the colonel. Would 
you like to have me read it to you?” 

“Yes,” he said, “I would. I would like to 
hear anything from him.” 

She commenced to read the letter; but had 
not gone very far when she changed her mind, 
lest, if she should read on, the surprise would 
be too sudden when she should come upon what 
the colonel had said in answer to her telegram. 
So she made an excuse for putting it aside, 
and commenced to toy with the locket which 
hung about her neck, suspended by the very 
same chain which had so long ago been found 
around her brother’s neck. He noticed this 


A NEW NAME. 


2 77 


movement, and in some way, divined her pur- 
pose ; and, looking into her eyes, smiled know- 
ingly. This surprised her. She said : 

“ Have you seen this locket before ?” 

“O yes, many a time,” he said. 

“And do you know where it came from?” 

“O yes ; Mr. Carl sent it to you.” 

“And do you know why I have it instead 
of you?” 

Her heart almost ceased to beat as she waited 
his reply. He did not speak at once, but looked 
her steadily in the eye to see if he might not 
read therein a certainty of what he hoped was 
true. • Encouraged, he reached one hand out 
toward her, which she immediately clasped in 
hers, and said : 

“I think I know.” 

“What is it?” she asked, bending over him, 
her face almost touching his in her eagerness to 
catch the words which came feebly and faintly. 

Emboldened by this act, Oswald reached up 
the other arm, she having still retained his hand 
in hers, and put it about her neck, drawing 
her face down close to his, so that he could 
whisper into her ear, while her heart beat 
violently, and her face flushed with the anxiety 
that no words could express : 

“Because you are the colonel’s sister.” 

“Yes, yes,” she said; “but what else?” 


278 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


He disengaged his hand from her clasp, and 
reaching it up, clasped both arms about her 
neck, and hugged her close, while he said, pant- 
ing for breath to utter the words : 

“ Because — you — are — my — sister !” 

Then followed a flood of tears which she 
could not restrain. When she could control her 
emotion sufficiently, she said : 

“Yes, yes, I am; but who told you?” 

“I have known it, or believed it, a long 
time,” he said. “Do you believe it?” he asked. 

“Believe it,” she said, kneeling by the cot, 
and drawing herself back, gazing intently and 
lovingly in his eyes. “ Believe it,” she asked 
again. “O, my darling brother, I could not help 
believing it.” 

And then she thrust one arm under his back, 
and rubbing her hand up and down between his 
shoulders, said, laughingly : “That is a mark 
that I could never forget, which no water could 
wash out, which no time could change. Ah ! my 
brother, many a time have I stood by my mother 
when you were being bathed, and wondered that 
such an ugly mark as that should be given to 
such a pretty baby.” 

Oswald was completely surprised ; but his 
heart beat joyously, because he was now sat- 
isfied better than he had been, or could have been 
otherwise, that there was no mistake, because 


A NEW NAME. 279 

she could not have known of that unless she 
had been his own true sister. 

“And the colonel?” said Oswald, hesi- 
tatingly. 

“The colonel!” said his sister, with wide 
open eyes. “Can ’t you say ‘brother,’ just once? 
I know it would seem strange ; but try it !” 

Oswald smiled, closed his eyes a moment, 
and then opened them, and said feebly : 

“And does brother know?” 

“Yes, yes, darling, your brother knows; and 
he is happier than words can tell.” 

“Then I don’t have to go back.” 

“Go back where?” she said. “To your old 
home? No, never! never!” 

“I am so glad,” he said, closing his eyes 
and manifesting a weariness which alarmed his 
sister, and she hastened to beg of him not to 
say any more, but to wait. 

“For we have years and years,” she said, “to 
talk this all over, and I will never leave you, 
and you will never leave me.” 

Thus assured, as she sat by him and gently 
stroked his head, he fell asleep, and slept peace- 
fully for many an hour. 

When he awoke he found his sister bending 
over him; for she had left her place on the 
stool at the first signs of his awakening, and 
stood by his cot, ready to supply every want as 


28 o 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


soon as known. Softly she said, her face 
pressed soothingly against his hot cheeks, that 
were dry and red with fever: 

“You have slept so quietly. Do you feel 
better?” 

“I never believed in heaven before,” he said, 
as well as his parched lips and thickened tongue 
would permit, “but I do now. I am there!” 
And he caressed the face of his sister, and 
laughed amid the tears that trickled down his 
cheeks. These she wiped away with a dainty 
handkerchief, delicately perfumed, mingling 
hers with his; but they were tears of joy, every 
one of them. 

“There is another word I want to hear you 
say,” she said, after a little. “Will you?” 

He smiled and replied: “Anything you want 
me to do I will do.” 

“Say sister.” 

“Sister! My sister!” 

“That’s a darling!” 

“I am saying — that word — all the time — in 
my mind — and wondering — if — it is all a 
dream” he said feebly and with great effort. 

“O, my precious brother! it is not a dream. 
Does n’t your leg hurt you?” seeing him wince 
a little. 

“Nothing hurts me when you look at me 
that way.” 



Chapter X£JJJ. 

THE NEWS IN CAMP. 

T HE hot sand-hill along the side of which 
the colonel’s regiment was camped in Ar- 
kansas was not a place to make one happy with 
life’s surroundings, and did not invite exuberant 
expressions of joy, even when one was most 
joyous. To be quiet and to keep cool, was the 
chief endeavor of all — from the colonel down. 

But the colonel was conscientious, and, 
though the time of service had nearly expired, 
he did not neglect his duty to instruct the of- 
ficers and men in military tactics. 

He had constructed near his head-quarters an 
arbor of green boughs brought from the distant 
timber. It was spacious enough to accommodate 
a hundred men or more ; and here he called the 
company officers daily, and taught them the 
movements of a battalion, questioning them as 
to what orders should be given to bring about 
a given formation. 

In this gathering military etiquette was dis- 

2 4 2&I 


282 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


carded, and all were permitted to appear in the 
coolest attire at hand, and to assume such posi- 
tions as seemed most comfortable. 

The colonel sat on a camp-stool, a picture 
of patient uncomfortableness. His hat lay by 
his side; his hair was brushed back from his 
white and expansive forehead ; beads of perspi- 
ration stood out on his face, and streams of 
sweat ran down his neck, which was bare of tie 
or collar; his coat and vest hung on a projection 
of the rough pole behind him, which held up 
the arbor at that end ; his suspenders were 
thrown off his shoulders, and dropped by his 
sides in graceful curves; his shirt was made to 
take on the appearance of a child’s blouse-waist, 
and his arms were uncovered to the elbow, 
where the sleeves of his shirt were rolled loosely ; 
his slippers were the only tight-fitting part of 
his apparel, and even above them the trousers 
had been rolled, to give the air every possible 
chance to soothe the burning flesh. 

Before him and around him squatted, rolled, 
and sat the officers, every one red with heat and 
streaming with perspiration, listening to their 
instructor sometimes, but oftener thinking of the 
enjoyment they should have when they got back 
home, and could lie on green and sweet grass, 
under thick-boughed trees, sipping ice-water or 
taking a drink of lemonade from glasses tinkling 


THE NE WS IN CAMP. 283 

with bits of ice that jingled against each other 
and the glasses ! 

“Corporal Carl,” said the colonel, mopping 
his forehead with a silk handkerchief from which 
one might already squeeze water, “ suppose you 
should hear the command — ” 

At that instant the colonel saw a messenger 
approach with an envelope in his hand, and 
paused to wait his coming. He took the mes- 
sage, read it hastily, and said abruptly : 

“Further study is postponed until to-morrow 
at this hour. You may retire to your quarters.” 

He led all the rest in vacating the arbor and 
finding the privacy of his tent. 

Five minutes afterward, Babbitt, Jakey, and 
George were in the tent with him, for he had 
sent for them. 

Smiling broadly, and with difficulty restrain- 
ing his emotion of joy, he said: 

“ Boys, it is all true!” 

“How ’s that, colonel?” asked George. 

“Theodore is the baby!” 

“Is the what, colonel?” queried Babbitt. 

“Theodore is our brother!” 

“Not truly, truly?” 

“No doubt about it!” 

“Not glad, or anything, colonel?” said George, 
his tender heart so touched that he hastily 
dashed away a tear of sympathy. 


284 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

“Glad!” exclaimed the colonel, “ I can scarcely 
wait the two weeks to pass before we can go 
home.” 

Jakey said nothing, but his beaming face 
showed clearly how his own soul was stirred by 
the glad tidings. 

“I thought it all the time,” the colonel went 
011, “but dared not say so. I hoped something 
would crop out of his manner or speech that 
would give me a clew, but it did n’t.” 

“And he thought so, too,” said Babbitt. 

“He!” said the colonel in surprise. 

“Yes; but he was too proud to let you 
know it.” 

“Since when did he think so?” 

“Since the night you talked to us on the 
train.” 

“I would never have guessed it from his 
actions,” the colonel said proudly. 

“Of course not!” said George; “but you 
would have guessed it, may be, if we had told 
you the secret of our little circle when we took 
you in, don’t you think?” 

“And what is the secret? Can you tell me 
now?” 

“Certainly; but you tell us if your baby 
brother had an infallible mark.” 

“A mark!” said the colonel, looking from one 
to another in greatest surprise. “A mark!” For 


THE NEWS IN CAMP. 


285 


a moment he was silent. “ Why did I not think 
of that? He had — a patch of hair between his 
shoulders.” 

“And so had Theodore!” they exclaimed to- 
gether. 

“Then that is what sister has seen and why 
she telegraphs me, ‘All doubts gone!’” 

“Theodore was sensitive about it,” said Bab- 
bitt, “and made us promise never to men- 
tion it.” 

“The poor boy!” said the colonel; “he will 
never regret again that it is there.” 

“Will we get to see him again?” asked Bab- 
bitt anxiously. 

“Get to see him! You certainly will if we 
live until we reach home.” 

“Or if he lives,” suggested George quietly. 

“He will — he must!” said the colonel impul- 
sively. “God would not let us look upon the 
treasure, and then snatch it from us.” 

“I wish Theodore believed in God,” said 
Babbitt, with a sigh. 

“And doesn’t he?” the colonel asked, a 
shadow of* disappointment clouding his face a 
moment. 

“No, I am afraid not — at least that is what 
he said once. We dropped the subject when we 
saw we could not agree,” Babbitt replied. 

“How should he?” suggested George. “How 


286 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


can we believe in one of whom we have not 
heard? And Theodore never heard of God — 
not as we have heard of him — for his life has 
been a fearfully lonely and barren one.” 

“Poor, poor Oswald !” sighed the colonel, and 
for a second he hid his face in his hands. 

“Is that his name now?” Babbitt asked 
softly. 

“Now, and before too. Do not call him The- 
odore, boys, any more. Call him Oswald. The- 
odore may have doubted God’s existence, but 
Oswald can not. He is Oswald, not Theodore.” 

“Let him stop off and visit us, Colonel, for a 
little while. Father would be delighted to have 
him, and we will try to show him where rests 
our faith,” pleaded Babbitt. 

“My dear boy,” the colonel answered, “I can 
not let him stop, for we want him all the time; 
as to his belief — or rather, unbelief — I feel it 
my precious privilege to lead him to light and 
liberty.” 

“ I envy you your charge,” said George ear- 
nestly; “for I know he will grow into a fine 
Christian man, and to you will belong the credit.” 

“To me will belong the joy , say,” the colonel 
said. 

“Not all the joy,” Babbitt urged smilingly; 
“part of that will be ours.” 

“I am sure you are right,” he replied. “I 


THE NEWS IN CAMP. 287 

can imagine how happy you already feel in his 
restoration to his family.” 

“My!” said Babbitt. “Think of father and 
mother and Miss Laura — how they will re- 
joice !” 

“And Mrs. Jacobus!” said George. “But for 
her, who could have solved the mystery?” 

They glanced at Jakey, and his eyes drooped 
under this kindly gaze. 

“How is your mother?” the colonel inquired, 
gently. 

Jakey shook his head, but did not look up. 
He could not speak. 

“Never mind, Jakey,” the colonel said, put- 
ting his hand on the lad’s head. “I was your 
friend for your father’s sake, but now I am 
doubly so for your mother’s sake. I want you 
to come to our house and visit us, when we all 
get home. Will you?” 

“Yes, sir,” Jakey replied, in an undertone. 

“But you can not keep him, Colonel,” Babbitt 
said, earnestly. 

“Why so? His mother can come, too.” 

“But Miss Laura has first claim, you know.” 

“She can come, too,” said the colonel, gal- 
lantly. 

“Do you intend to take the whole circle 
under your charge?” laughingly asked Babbitt. 

“Just as well,” said the colonel, good humor- 


288 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


edly; “for I have half now, counting Miss 
Laura!” 

“If she goes, and Jakey goes, and Thee — Os- 
wald is there, I could n’t stand it to be left 
behind,” Babbitt said, lightly; but he was more 
in earnest than his manner suggested. 

“I will send for you — and George, too,” the 
colonel said. 

The tent was but little more than a canopy, 
for the sides had been lifted, and were tied close 
up, that circulation of air should be free ; so 
that all the regiment saw the colonel and his 
guests laughing and talking, apparently igno- 
rant of the intense heat that was making that 
side-hill a frying-pan, and wondered what was 
the theme of conversation. They did not won- 
der long; for as the Little Corporal’s mess went 
to their tent, they told all they met the good 
news, and it ran throughout the camp rapidly. 

The next day a formal note was received at 
the Little Corporal’s mess, which said: 

“Colonel Smith earnestly desires that Bab- 
bitt Carl, Jakey Jacobus, and George Patton 
shall not engage themselves in any way after 
discharge from this service, until he has had 
time to confer with them.” 

“What does it mean?” said George. 

“A good place and prompt pay,” said Babbitt. 

Jakey said nothing, but wondered greatly. 



Chapter 


HIS OWN HOME. 


FTER two weeks, Oswald was so far re- 



covered that the surgeons said he might 
start home with his sister. 

He was not the robust, well-favored, and 
ruddy-faced young man that fled from Farmer 
Jenkins’s cruelty in early May. Instead, he was 
thin, pale, trembling, and sorely afflicted in 
body. Nevertheless, he was strong in spirit, 
and could not see why he was not as strong in 
body. 

His sister yielded to his entreaty, and per- 
mitted him to dress himself in his uniform 
the morning they were to start home, and 
walk to the station to take the car for Ca- 
rondelet. 

His step was not only slow, but exceedingly 
uncertain ; for as he walked, helped by a cane 
on one side and his sister’s arm on the other, 
there were times when daylight faded and he 
was totally blind to everything around him, and 


289 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


290 

he groped as a blind man indeed, feeling ahead 
of him with his cane. 

“What are you pointing at?” she asked, anx- 
iously scanning his troubled face. 

“Nothing. It seemed like — I was blind.” 

“You can see me, can you not?” 

“Yes; and feel you, too, which is better” — 
hugging her arm close in his. 

Then he stopped short, and looked dazed and 
helpless. No wonder, for the sidewalk was 
rising up to meet him, and the trees danced and 
skipped about him like girls around a May-pole. 

“Let me call a carriage?” she cried, for he 
reeled on his feet. 

That brought him back, and he said, deter- 
minedly : 

“No; I can make it.” 

“But why should you struggle on like this, 
when we would better ride ?” 

“Because I am well,” he said, with a feeble 
laugh, “and want to exercise a little.” 

It was not in her heart to deny him any- 
thing, and she would not cross him in this ; so 
they walked on, and reached the station and 
went into the little crowded waiting-room to 
find every chair taken, and some convalescent 
soldiers lying on the floor. 

Slowly making his way to the corner, Oswald 
deliberately sat on the floor, and braced his back 


HIS OWN HOME. 


291 


against the two walls that met there, and threw 
his head back, a picture of exhaustion and suf- 
fering. 

“Oswald! Oswald!” his sister said, standing 
over him and reaching out her hands to help 
him up. “You must not sit there. I will send 
for a carriage. We will go — ” 

Oswald heard no more. Falling forward, he 
would have struck his head against the iron 
seat, had Miss Lou not caught him as she knelt 
at his feet. She did not scream, nor cry aloud; 
but with white face and set lips, gathered him 
into her arms, and waited. 

In the room were a score of soldiers — some 
going home, some returning to their commands, 
and some on a leave of absence from the hos- 
pital-grounds. 

“If you please, let me help you,” said one, 
offering his assistance to Miss Lou. 

“If I can only get him on the cars, and 
home,” she said, gratefully accepting the offer. 

At that instant the train rushed into the sta- 
tion ; and after all the rest had found seats, 
Miss Lou was able to get her precious burden 
on the car and into a seat, pillowing his head 
on her shoulder, and having a window raised 
that the soft air of that mild September day 
might fan his face as the train dashed away to 
Carondelet. 


292 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

Just before that place was reached, he lifted 
his head, and said, smiling faintly: 

“I thought the depot had been washed away 
in a flood, and I was rocking on the billows. 
Did you hear me scream?” 

“Never mind, brother; it is all right. Put 
your head right back here on sister’s shoulder, 
and sleep.” 

“But how did I get on, anyway? I do not 
remember it.” 

“Never mind that. We are flying toward 
home. I am watching you ; never fear. When 
we get home, what a long, long rest you will 
have !” 

Oswald did put his head, throbbing with pain 
now, back on her shoulder ; but when she 
had ceased speaking, he looked in her eyes 
a moment, and said, dreamily : 

“ Is it a dream ? Am I on my way to heaven ? 
Are you an angel?” 

“Never mind, now,” she said, soothingly. 
“Wait, and see.” 

Then he slept again ; or, if not asleep, was 
so quiet she thought he was. And then they 
rolled into Carondelet, and were helped into an 
omnibus, in which they crossed the river; and 
after an hour’s delay they were on the train that 
would take them straight to Shepherdstown, to 
Miss Dou’s beautiful home. 


HIS OWN HOME. 


293 


Oswald remembered getting off tbe cars at 
Carondelet. His next conscious moment came 
to him in his own room, in his own home ; and 
by his side was his faithful attendant — his sister. 
Not so fresh and beautiful as when he saw her 
first, for three weeks of waiting between hope 
and fear, three weeks nursing him day and 
night, three weeks of daily letter-writing and 
receiving callers, had dimmed the sparkle of 
her eye, and had brushed the ruddy rose from 
her cheek ; but Oswald did not see that. He 
saw only the love-light that flashed into his 
eyes when he opened them and recog- 
nized her. 

“He knows me now!” 

This she said in a low tone to a lady who 
was in the room with her. 

“May I speak to him?” 

“ Oswald, do you know me ? and are you bet- 
ter?” his sister asked. 

“Never was better,” he said feebly. “Have 
I slept long?” and he glanced about and felt 
of his bed-covers, to make sure of his sur- 
roundings. 

“So long — O so long! We were almost 
afraid you would never wake.” 

“And this?” — he looked at his sister, and 
then at the ceiling and the walls. 

“This is home — your home!” 


294 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


He closed his eyes, and she hastened to say : 

“Oswald, would you like to speak to my 
friend here? She has come many miles to 
see you.” 

He slowly bowed his head in assent. 

“This is my friend Miss Laura Lawrence.” 

“Do you remember me?” Miss Laura asked, 
coming to the bed, and taking his hand in hers. 

He did not reply, but smiling, gathered her 
hand in both of his, placed them under his face 
as he snuggled in the pillows, and for a little 
while slept again. 

Miss Laura sat by his bed, and waited until 
she could withdraw her hand without disturb- 
ing him. 

“He breathes easier, and does not moan as 
when he is flighty,” Miss Lou said, and then 
turned a brighter face upon Miss Laura than 
she had shown during the two days she had 
been there. 

“Will you stay over to-night?” 

“I think not. The boys are likely to come 
home any day now, since they are in the State, 
and I want to be at home when Jakey comes. 
I must take the afternoon train. Let me see — I 
have three hours yet.” 

“It is so kind of you to come. I knew you 
would be glad to hear, so I sent the message 
the day we got here.” 


HIS O WN HOME . 


295 


“ It is a pleasure, I assure you, to be here. 
Tell Os — Mr. Smith about Mrs. Jenkins, will 
you, as soon as he can bear it ? She is so anx- 
ious to see him. She grieves for him as for 
her own child. She said she had a very im- 
portant paper to give him, but would not trust 
it with any one but himself.” 

“A scheme, perhaps, to get him there,” said 
Miss Lou, as plans for forcibly detaining him 
there flitted through her mind, and fright- 
ened her. 

“O no! Mrs. Jenkins is not that kind. He 
was, perhaps, but not she.” 

“If he goes, I will go too,” said Miss Lou, 
decidedly. 

“Do! Just the thing! Then I will go too. 
The drive will be a lovely one this fall-time. 
The roads are as hard and smooth as a pike, 
and the w T oods are beautiful. We will drive 
down in our carriage, and take our lunch along 
with us, and spread it at Mrs. Jenkins’s. I 
should think Thee — Mr. Smith would enjoy 
that.” 

“What a schemer you are!” laughed Miss 
Lou in spite of her forebodings. “ I suppose if 
we do that, we will take Babbitt and Jakey 
along, too?” 

“Of course. Mr. Carl will go in his spring- 
wagon, and take the baskets. That is a good 


296 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

suggestion, Miss Lou,” laughed Miss Laura, 
softly but gaily. 

“But Mrs. Jacobus?” said Miss Lou. 

“Well, poor woman!” speaking sadly. “I 
can not say. Hers is a sorrowful case. We did 
think she would not live to see Jakey, but I 
guess now she will.” 

“But what do you think Mrs. Jenkins means 
about ‘ a paper ?’ What can she have that con- 
cerns Oswald? Surely none of my father’s pa- 
pers of value were with him 'when they found 
him.” 

“Well, we will see.” 

And so they did, and were surprised. 



Chapter £:£V. 

A SHARP SWORD. 

O SWALD recovered slowly; for when his 
sister was surest that he was steadily 
gaining, then would come a most disheartening 
relapse. Some days, when his variable appetite 
seemed strong and reliable, and when tempting 
food had been eagerly taken, the afternoon 
would bring languor, fever, delirium, and pros- 
tration to Oswald, and fearful forebodings to his 
sister. 

It was such an afternoon as that when the 
colonel returned, relieved of his command ; for 
they had all been mustered out, and had returned 
to their homes. 

“ And how is Oswald?” he said, after warmly 
greeting his sister in the hall. 

She shook her head, and hid her face on his 
shoulder, her tears choking her utterance. 

“Not worse?” he exclaimed. “ Why did you 
not wire me ?” 

“I am afraid he is,” she sobbed. 


297 


298 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


“I would have come on an earlier train, and 
gone back.” 

“I know, but he has only been worse since 
noon.” 

“Let me see him !” 

“Yes, but, brother — ” and she held him back, 
as he was about to mount the stairs. “The 
doctor says he must have perfect quiet. Do not 
excite him.” 

“Trust me for that, sister.” 

Together, arm in arm, they softly entered 
Oswald’s room. The attendant retired, and left 
the three alone. 

Bending over Oswald, Colonel Smith watched 
his face, listened to his breathing, and softly felt 
his pulse. Turning to his sister, he said, with a 
reassuring manner : 

“A natural sleep.” 

“And he is better?” she asked, in a 
whisper. 

“Not in any danger, certainly,” he said. 

Sitting by his side they watched and waited 
for awakening, noting every symptom ; and the 
day wore away into night, and night was fading 
into daylight, when Oswald opened his eyes. 
He did not see his sister, as he thought he 
would ; but above him bent a face that was both 
strange and familiar, so he smiled, and closed 
his eyes. 


A SHARP SWORD . 


299 

“ Oswald !” The voice was tender, but strong 
and hopeful. 

“ Brother !” he answered ; but dared not open 
his eyes again, fearing it was all a dream, and 
the vision would disappear if he looked. 

“That is all!” and a hand, cool and sympa- 
thetic, pressed his forehead, while another 
clasped his hot fingers. “ Be quiet, and sleep — 
or rest.” 

It was not a dream ! 

Thus soothed, Oswald did sleep again. He 
wanted to stay awake, but could not, so heavy 
was the stupor upon him. When he awakened, 
daylight, softened by nicely adjusted curtains, 
filled the room, and the perfume of delicate 
flowers delighted his heart. A sweet breath of 
air touched his face, and wafted to him cooling 
odors of fresh and soothing sheets and covers. 
At his head he heard the almost suppressed 
breathing of one whose presence he had learned 
to love, and to know by a subtle influence he 
could feel, but could not understand. At his 
side he heard the regular and confident inspira- 
tion of one he had hoped so long to find as kind 
as he knew he was brave and true. 

“Better?” asked his sister. 

“Undoubtedly,” said his brother. 

“Did he know you?” she asked. 

“I think so,” he said, just a little doubtfully. 


300 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

Then Oswald stretched out one hand toward 
the voice, and lifted the other to touch the face 
above his. 

On his knees the colonel lifted up his voice, 
and said : 

“We thank thee, Lord, and will ever serve 
thee with grateful hearts, for this great blessing. 
Save our brother from death, and make him a 
true and loving disciple ! For Jesus’ sake. 
Amen.” 

Then Miss Lou kneeled, and said : 

“ Father in heaven, mercifully hear our prayer. 
Bid this fever subside, and may our dear brother 
never again leave us, for with thee is all power 
on earth and in heaven ! For Jesus’ sake. 
Amen.” 

Oswald opened his eyes now, and was de- 
lighted to find that his vision was clear, and his 
mind steadier than it had been for days and 
days. 

“He is better!” his sister said, joyfully. 

“O yes!” the colonel said, with undisguised 
pleasure. “ The Lord is a very present help in 
trouble.” 

“We have both asked the same thing of 
him, and he can not deny us, for his promise is 
to ‘two or three who unite.’ ” 

“Where is God?” said Oswald, forcing back 
the peace that began to fill his soul, as he 


A SHARP SWORD. 301 

yielded to the influence of the prayers he had 
just heard. 

“Everywhere!” said the colonel, promptly, 
not suspecting the doubt that suggested the 
question. 

“Can I not see him?” 

“No,” said the colonel; ‘for no man can see 
God, and live.’ ” 

“Why not let me die, then?” said Oswald, 
with a sharpness of voice and manner that was 
strange to his sister; for he had been so tender 
and affectionate in manner and speech. 

“There! there!” said the colonel, scarcely 
knowing what course to take. “When you are 
stronger, we will talk that all over.” 

“No, tell me now.” 

“What, Oswald? What, my brother, dear? 
What do you want us to tell you?” his sister 
said, soothingly. 

“Why not let me die, and see God?” 

“You might not,” said the colonel, wondering 
why he should attempt to argue with so sick a 
young man. 

“What?” said Oswald, and his face grew 
hard. 

“‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they 
shall see God,’ ” said the colonel, repeating the 
passage, because at that instant it passed before 
his mind. 


302 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

Then was Oswald thrust through and through 
by that sharp sword of the Spirit. He was con- 
scious of an impure heart, though he believed 
no one knew it but himself ; for he had always 
felt an abhorrence for outbreaking sin. After a 
momentary struggle with himself, he asked : 

“Who are pure in heart? — anybody?” 

“‘They in whose eyes a vile person is con- 
temned, but who honoreth them that fear the 
Lord,’ ” the colonel said, quoting from memory 
from the Psalms. 

Then Oswald groaned inwardly, though not 
a sound escaped his lips. He did contemn a 
vile person, he thought ; but he did not honor 
them that feared the Lord. Then he was not 
pure ! 

“Never mind, dear,” his sister said, tearfully, 
for her fears had mastered her faith; and then 
to the colonel she said : “I fear his mind is 
affected. He has never talked like this be- 
fore.” 

“ No! no!” Oswald said, with surprising vigor. 
“My mind is all right. I am better than I have 
been for weeks. I am myself, or getting to be. 
That is why I talk so. You will hate me, I 
know ; but you must know the worst. There is 
no God for me !” 

Miss Lou hid her face in the pillow, and for 
one little moment wished she had never found 


A SHARP SWORD. 303 

Oswald. But the colonel was undaunted, and 
said, soothingly: 

“Do you really feel better, Oswald?” 

“Ever so much.” 

“Better than yesterday?” 

“Yes.” 

“Better than this morning early?” 

“Yes, brother.” 

“Why, do you think?”- 
“I do not know.” 

“Have we done anything for you?” 

“O yes ! much, very much.” 

“What?” 

“O, so much I can not tell.” 

“May I?” 

“Yes, if you want to.” 

“We prayed for you!” 

The colonel’s manner was so earnest, so con- 
fident, so kind, that Oswald could do nothing 
but look at him steadily for a minute. Then 
he said : 

“Do you think that made me better?” 

“I do.” 

“Why?” 

“Because ‘the prayer of faith shall save the 
sick.’ ” 

“But some prayers are not answered.” 

“Yes.” 

“Well?” said Oswald, inquiringly. 


304 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

“Well?” said the colonel, firmly. 

“That proves — ” faltered Oswald. 

“Go on; that proves — ” said the colonel, 
helping him. 

“That proves — ” again faltered Oswald. 

“If it proves anything,” said the colonel, “it 
proves that some prayers are answered. For if 
some are not, then some are.” 

“I see!” said Oswald, and a gleam of satis- 
faction lighted his face, but it vanished in- 
stantly. 

“And if some prayers are answered,” urged 
the colonel, pressing his vantage firmly, “ we 
know there must be an Answerer.” 

“I see!” said Oswald, another flash of pleas- 
ure lighting his face. 

“And the Answerer is God,” said the colonel, 
earnestly, “for our prayers are made to him!” 

“Yes,” said Oswald, sighing resignedly. 

“Do you believe now?” 

“I am afraid to,” he said, and his face dark- 
ened again. 

“Of what?” 

“Am afraid it is not true !” 

“ ‘What time I am afraid,’ ” said the coloneb 
“ ‘I will trust in the Ford.’ ” 

“How can we trust when afraid?” said Os- 
wald, anxiously. 

“When afraid, we trust — that is, believe, 


A SHARP SWORD. 


3°5 


when everything is against belief; and then, 
after a little while, we find our trust outlives 
our fears, and we know by that that it is % real 
and touches life, for it lives !” 

“See, brother!” said Miss Lou, kneeling by 
his bed and caressing his hands. “We feared 
you were lost, but when we heard you had been , 
saved from the water, we trusted God to bring 
- you to us. We prayed and feared, but trusted 
still. And — ” 

“And,” said the colonel, finishing what Miss 
Lou could not say for her emotion, “you are the 
best answer our prayers ever had!” 

“Perhaps,” said Oswald, timidly, “if I could 
have — my — that is — if I could ask for — some- 
thing, and get it — I would — ” 

“You may!” said his sister, quickly, as she 
guessed his meaning. “You may have an an- 
swer to your own prayer, and then you will 
know.” 

“That is it!” said the colonel. “‘If any 
man will do his will he shall know of the doc- 
trine, whether it be of God.’ ” 

“But let us put this aside, dear brother,” 
said Miss Lou, “for I am afraid it will worry 
you. Just promise me one thing. You will 
follow every good impression?” 

“Yes! yes!” said Oswald, eagerly. 

“And promise me one thing?” said the colonel. 

26 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


306 

“Well,” smiling faintly. 

“That you will not resist the truth.” 

“I promise.” 

“Then you are safe, for the truth shall make 
you free !” 

“What is the truth?” asked Oswald, anx- 
iously. 

“Jesus of Nazareth is the truth. Yield to 
his guidance, and all is plain.” 

“I can not see — I can not — ” 

“Which way are you looking? If you look 
at the wall, you can not see anything but the 
wall. If you look at the window, you see the 
window, and through the window, and all that 
is outside — the earth, the sky, the stars, and the 
universe. Jesus is the light — the window. 
Look toward him and see him, and through him 
see God ! Try it.” 

“His fever is all gone !” said Miss Lou, pass- 
ing her hand over his face, and then grasping 
his hands in hers. 

“I believe it is,” he answered. “I see better 
and think better and feel better.” 

“Does not all this talk worry you?” she 
asked. 

“ No, it rests me. I have been tired so long — . 
been tired of nothing.” 

“I understand,” the colonel said, warmly. 
“You have been starved and burdened. Now 


A SHARP SWORD. 30 7 

you are to be fed and relieved, and are to have 
something all the time.” 

“That’s the doctor,” said Miss Lou, as they 
heard his voice below. 

“How now!” he said, in surprise, as he ex- 
amined Oswald’s pulse, looked at his tongue, 
and put his hand on the patient’s head, glanc- 
ing inquiringly at the colonel and then at 
Miss Lou. 

“What do you think?” asked the colonel. 

“Think! I do not think! I am astonished! 
I expected to find him — well, I did not expect 
to find him like this !” 

The next day the doctor came again, and 
also the next ; but as Oswald so rapidly im- 
proved he dismissed the case, and said : 

“He was only grieving for his brother!” 

And so he was, but not for his brother, the 
colonel of the regiment ; but his Elder Brother, 
the King of kings. When he came he brought 
healing of mind and body. 

About the middle of October, when Indian 
summer had commenced, so strong was Oswald 
that a telegram went forward to Miss Laura, 
saying : 

“Meet the noon train, to-morrow. 

“IyOU and Oswald.” „ 

Miss Laura and Jakey, Mr. Carl and Babbitt, 
and several intimate friends, were at the depot 


3°8 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


when the noon train came in ; and the colonel, 
returning from Chicago, met them the next day, 
and went with them to Mrs. Jenkins’s house, 
intending to come back by way of George’s 
home ; for there had been some great plans laid 
by Oswald since his convalescence, and all the 
Circle were needed to carry them into effect. 
Their visit to Mrs. Jenkins modified, but did 
not interrupt, the good work proposed. 





Chapter ^^VJ. 

A MARKSMAN’S SKILL 

T HAT was a happy party that started for 
Mrs. Jenkins’s home, a little before sun- 
rise, the next day. The distance to be made — 
twenty-five miles — was not considered great ; for 
the roads were smooth and hard most of the 
way, and the teams were of the highest order 
of roadsters, and the vehicles were comfortable 
and light. 

Mr. Carl and Babbitt, Colonel Smith and 
Jakey, were in Mr. Carl’s open carriage. Os- 
wald and Miss Lou, Miss Laura and Mrs. Carl, 
were in Judge Lawrence’s covered carriage. 
This is the arrangement the colonel insisted 
upon, and all the others acquiesced in ; though 
Jakey thought he ought to drive the judge’s 
carriage, and not sit in the back-seat of Mr. 
Carl’s conveyance with Colonel Smith, leaving 
Miss Laura to hold the lines, and taking the 
colonel away from his brother. 

Babbitt would have been pleased to have all 

309 


3 IQ 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


the young folks in their conveyance, and all the 
older ones in Judge Lawrence’s carriage ; for he 
was sure Miss Laura and Oswald, Jakey and 
himself, could drive time faster than the horses 
could draw the light vehicle. But that could 
not be, for Oswald needed the better accommoda- 
tion of the carriage ; and Miss Laura insisted 
that she understood driving her father’s horses 
as no one one else did, and she must drive them. 

Osw.ald was quite content. To be with his 
sister was joy enough. To listen to the viva- 
cious talk of Miss Laura was like a gentle stim- 
ulant. She was not as old as he had supposed, 
and was surprised to know she had not com- 
pleted her studies at school. When he met her 
at his sister’s home, he thought she was about 
the same age as his sister. He saw now his 
mistake, but no one had told him before. 

As for Miss Laura, she found Oswald older 
than he had been represented to be. She had 
thought of him as of Babbitt’s age — her junior 
by full three years — a mere boy. But now she 
saw that she was out in her reckoning by at 
least six years. It made her blush to recall the 
patronizing air she had manifested when she 
hastened over to Miss Lou’s to see him. 

As for Miss Lou, she was not wide of the 
mark in any of her guesses, and now secretly 
enjoyed the partly hidden but very easily dis- 


A MARKSMAN'S SKILL. 31 1 

cerned confusion of the two young folks, as they 
endeavored to correct their past mistakes. 

The colonel was solving several questions as 
he rolled along the prairie road, talking to Mr. 
Carl, and measuring both Babbitt and Jakey. 
He decided that Jakey could be trusted with 
any responsibility, where carefulness and atten- 
tion to details were necessary. He thought he 
knew where he could place Jakey with assurance 
of success. 

As to Babbitt, the colonel felt convinced that 
he was adapted for a position requiring quick- 
ness, decision, and perseverance, joined with 
amiableness and ambition. He was sure he 
could place him, if his father would only consent. 

Then he fell to meditating of George, and 
smiled broadly as he pictured the Little Cor- 
poral’s mess, all quartered under his protecting 
and nourishing care, with its least member be- 
come its chief ; for was not Oswald heir to a 
larger fortune than he himself had been count- 
ing on ? For the past few days had been spent 
by him in getting a just estimate of the value 
of the estate. 

When noonday came they were still on the 
prairie, but in sight of their destination ; and 
within an hour’s drive were the woods where 
they had planned to step for lunch. 

“I begin to feel at home,” said Oswald, as 


3 1* 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


he caught sight of the dark line along the hori- 
zon, where the tree-tops of a familiar wood broke 
the clear blue of the sky. 

“Why so?” Miss Lou asked, not knowing 
what had given rise to his remark. 

“Those trees away off there remind me of 
some good old times.” 

Then a shadow fell over her face, for she was 
jealous of everything that divided Oswald’s af- 
fections, and could not feel at ease if he did not 
constantly declare his preference for her home — 
his home now. 

“Then you were sometimes happy there?” 
she said, with a little tremble of regret in her 
voice. 

“Yes, when by myself in the woods; but not 
often.” 

For a minute there was silence, unbroken 
except by the dull rumble of the wheels over 
the smooth road, and the deadened clatter of 
the horses’ hoofs along the highway. Slipping 
his arm along the back of the seat, and bring- 
ing it down on Miss Lou’s shoulder, Oswald 
whispered, as he leaned against her: 

“But I am happy with you all the time!” 

Instantly the cloud burst, the sun gleamed, 
and softly caressing his cheek, she answered, so 
only he could hear: 

“So am I!” 


A MARKSMANS SKILL. 


3 T 3 

“ My !” said Oswald, brightening, and straight- 
ening up. “We shall have a turkey-dinner to- 
morrow or next day, I am thinking, at both my 
homes!” 

“Both homes!” echoed Miss Lou. 

“Yes; my real, real home, and my make-be- 
lieve home — Mrs. Jenkins’s.” 

“Do you call that home?” Miss Laura asked. 

“Well, it is n’t so awfully bad now, I guess, 
since — since — Mr. Jenkins is not there.” 

“But what suggested turkeys to you,” Miss 
Lou asked, “when- Thanksgiving is a month 
away?” 

“The woods. That piece of woods is full of 
turkeys.” 

“Whose? Mrs. Jenkins’s?” 

“O no!” laughed Oswald. “Everybody’s — 
anybody’s — whoever can get them.” 

“I never heard of such a thing h” Miss Lou 
said, looking at her brother incredulously. 

“You didn’t, truly? Never heard of wild 
turkeys? Well, then, I shall show you some, 
unless I miss my guess.” 

“ O, wild turkeys! Yes, I have heard of them, 
but never saw any.” 

“Just you wait!” 

With that, Oswald settled back in the cush- 
ions, a bright spot burning in each cheek as he 
thought of the coming opportunity to show his 
27 


314 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE . 

sister and Miss Laura how much of a hunter 
he was. 

Babbitt had thoughtfully put his father’s 
fowling-piece in the wagon, hoping they would 
see some prairie-chickens on the way, and Os- 
wald knew the gun was along. 

It was past one o’clock when they stopped 
in the woods, nearly exactly where Mr. Carl and 
Miss Laura had stopped on their trip down the 
first time. 

“I want to show sister and Miss Laura a 
corn-field, not far off,” said Oswald, after all 
were out of the vehicles, “ and will take the gun 
along. Do not come near any of us if you hear 
us shooting, for we will see who can hit a mark, 
and may be firing toward you.” 

“ That ’s hardly fair!” said the colonel. “ We 
want the ladies to spread our lunch.” 

But Oswald only waved his hand deprecat- 
ingly, and slowly led the way through the under- 
brush, following a familiar path, which was 
so narrow that they were obliged to walk 
singly. After a little they came to a corn-field, 
the yellow stalks, pendent leaves, and drooping 
ears swaying gently in a soft wind that blew up 
the valley that extended to the open prairie 
beyond. 

“Now, you must do just exactly as I say — 
will you ?” he asked, turning to the ladies. 


A MARKSMAN'S SKILL. 315 

“Yes,” said Miss Lou, languidly, sitting on a 
convenient stump, “ unless it is to go farther. 
I am tired out now, and know you can not stand 
it either.” 

“Never mind me.” 

“What shall we do?” asked Miss Laura. 

“Sit flat on the ground, and crouch behind 
the biggest stump near you, when I say, ‘Hist!’” 

“That ’s easy,” said Miss Laura, laughing. 

“And don’t laugh, or even whisper!” he 
added. 

She quickly clasped her hand over her mouth, 
and Miss Lou looked on approvingly, as the 
two young folks stood a few paces ahead of her. 
Miss Laura was gazing admiringly at Oswald ; 
but he was watching the corn-field, and seemed 
oblivious of her presence. The corn-field was 
right in the midst of the woods, completely sur- 
rounded by tall timber. 

“See that!” said Oswald, excitedly, shoulder- 
ing his gun, and starting off rapidly. 

“Hold on!” cried his sister, preparing to 
follow. 

He stopped, looked back, motioned for silence, 
and when they had come up, said : 

“Follow, but say not a word, and mind me.” 

“What did you see?” demanded Laura, in a 
whisper, peering in the direction he had been 
looking. 


3 l6 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


“Turkey!” 

“Sure?” 

“Yes, but be still !” 

“Why, Oswald!” said his sister, reprovingly, 
but in a low tone. “What will Miss Laura 
think!” 

“Be still!” said Oswald, pausing a moment 
to speak to his sister, and then hurrying for- 
ward on tiptoe ; avoiding dry sticks that would 
break under his feet, and stooping low when in 
an open place. The ladies followed close be- 
hind, holding their skirts away from projecting 
snag and entangling thorn. 

Piff! Bang! 

“O!” screamed Miss Laura, as the gun was 
fired right in front of her, for she had not seen 
Oswald stop and put it to his shoulder. 

“Oswald!” exclaimed Miss Lou, rushing up, 
“are you hurt?” 

“Be still !” said Oswald, frowning, holding the 
smoking gun in his hand, and glancing here and 
there through the tree-tops. 

“Did you get the turkey?” queried Miss 
Laura, rallying from her first fright. 

“Be still!” he said, rather sternly, and then 
explained: “Not a turkey, but a dozen! Now, 
crouch here, behind this stump, and do not show 
your head for your life ! Take off your hats. 
That ’s it ! Now, wait.” 


A MARKSMAN'S SKILL. 31 7 

They obeyed, though a ludicrous spectacle 
they presented. Fortunately, no one was near 
to see them, and they did not care. 

Oswald was a few paces ahead of them, sit- 
ting flat on the ground, his back against a tree, 
his coat-collar turned up, and his hat pulled 
down behind, but turned up in front, hiding all 
but his eyes and cheeks. 

“Konk, konk, konk !” 

“I hear one!” whispered Miss Laura, as the 
familiar cry of a turkey broke the stillness. But 
she did not hear a turkey, for it was Oswald 
imitating one. 

“Pee, pee; pee, pee!” 

“That is a little one,” whispered Miss Laura, 
again. And she was right. 

When Oswald shot into the flock, they scat- 
tered in every direction, as he expected they 
would. They were too far away for him to kill 
any, so he sat down to call them back in range 
of his gun. 

“Konk, konk, konk, konk!” 

This time it was the mother-turkey herself 
calling, though the ladies could not tell the dif- 
ference between that and Oswald’s call. 

“ Pee, pee ; pee, pee !” 

The response came from many directions, 
and Oswald knew the half-grown turkeys 
were coming back to the feeding-place. 


318 the colonels charge. 

Just then Miss Laura peeped above the 
stump, and saw a half-grown turkey running as 
fast as his legs would carry him, straight toward 
the gleaming barrel of the gun leveled at him. 
Forgetting her orders, she straightened herself 
up, and putting her fingers in her ears, waited 
results. A puff of smoke — the turkey dropped! 
She clapped her hands, and shouted: 

“He did! He did !” 

“Be still! Sit down! Hide yourself!” said 
Oswald, looking around. 

“Konk, konk, konk!” 

This time it was Oswald calling. After a 
silence of a few seconds, the answer came from 
different directions, and the turkeys came trot- 
ting toward the ambush. First, the inother- 
turkey, then two young turkeys, then the old 
gobbler, and then another young turkey, and 
then another. All were shot in quick succes- 
sion ; for their coming, in answer to his call, 
was so far apart that he easily slipped shells 
into the breech-loading gun, and took them 
all in. 

“How’s that?” he aslced, rising, his hands 
black and his face smirched with the powder. 
“Six turkeys, and never left my tracks!” 

“Good!” said Miss Lou, enthusiastically. 
“Where did you learn how?” 

“Right here, in these woods !” 


A MARKSMAN'S SKILL. 319 

“Are there any more?” 

“Yes, but I have shot away all my shells.” 

“How can we get them back to the wagon 
and carriage?” Miss Laura asked, for she was 
anxious the others should see the trophies of 
Oswald’s skill. 

“Once I could have carried them all myself, 
but not now,” he said, for he was much fa- 
tigued. 

“No, you must not. But what shall 
we do?” 

“I will show you a path to take. It isn’t 
far back to the road. You go, and tell Babbitt 
and Jakey to come.” 

“And leave you here!” his sister said, in 
fear. 

“Of course. Tell them to halloo every few 
steps, and I will halloo back ; and in that way 
they can find me, and the turkeys too.” 

And so they did. But not only Babbitt and 
Jakey came, but Colonel Smith and Mr. Carl 
as well. 

“It will make Mrs. Jenkins think of old 
times, to see me coming in with a turkey in 
each hand,” Oswald said, as they started out to 
complete their journey. 

And so it did ; but her eyes were not on the 
turkeys Oswald insisted on carrying up to the 
house from the turn in the road, while the con- 


320 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

veyances drove around to the big gate, but on 
the young man himself ; for, though he walked 
like Theodore, and the turkeys reminded her 
of Theodore, his dress was so different, and his 
face so changed, that she did not know for sure 
until he said : 

“Your boy has come back, Mother Jenkins!” 



Chapter XXVJJ. 

A GOOD WILD. 

“1 I THEODORE! Theodore! My heart has 
longed for you so !” 

Mrs. Jenkins covered her face with her apron, 
and sank into the chair, leaving Oswald stand- 
ing in the open kitchen-door, a turkey in each 
hand. These he carried to a table — as he had 
often done before with others — and then sat 
down by Mrs. Jenkins, and laid his arm affec- 
tionately around her shoulders. 

“Have you missed me, Mother Jenkins?” 
he said, soothingly, as tears, trembling to fall, 
blinded his eyes. 

“Only God knows how much !” 

“‘Only God,’ Mother Jenkins! Do you be- 
lieve in God?” he asked, for the words were 
spoken reverently, as he had never heard her 
mention that name in any way. 

“O yes!” she sobbed. “How could I deny 
him?” 

“So do I believe in him!” Oswald said, his 

7,21 


322 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

heart beating faster as he thought of this new 
bond of sympathy; “and he has sent me to 
you, to take care of you the rest of your life.” 

“Will you stay with me?” She lifted her 
eyes to his in astonishment, and a smile strug- 
gled over her anxious face. 

“Yes, indeed I will, always and forever!” 

“With me , Theodore?” Instantly her tears 
ceased, and a glad face supplanted the old one of 
hopelessness. 

“Yes, or which is the same, you shall stay 
with me. I am not a poor boy, Mother Jenkins. 
I am rich.” 

“I know that, Theodore,” and the storm 
subsided as quickly as it had burst upon her. 
“ But I care nothing for riches. We have al- 
ways had enough of everything, except love, 
Theodore.” 

“You shall have that now, Mother Jenkins; 
for I will love you, my brother will love you, 
and my sister will love you.” 

“Your brother! Your sister! Don’t tell 
me, Theodore, you have some one else be- 
sides me !” 

The waves went over her soul again, and she 
sobbed in grief that was unspeakable. 

“Yes, Mother Jenkins, God has kindly led 
me all the way, and has given me back to my 
dear ones.” 


A GOOD WILL. 


323 


“ I did n’t know that ! I did n’t know that ! 
I thought they were only friends ! They will 
take you from me !” 

“No, no, Mother Jenkins! Where I go, you 
shall go. I have a beautiful home. You shall 
go there !” 

“It is all a dream !” she said, rocking herself 
to and fro. 

“It is all true!” Oswald said, tearfully. 
“My brother is here, and my sister too. Miss 
Laura and Mr. Carl are here. You know 
them.” 

“Yes, we are all here, Mrs. Jenkins,” said 
the colonel, coming into the room ; for they 
had tarried just outside the door, when they 
heard Oswald talking to her, and now all en- 
tered, and gathered about the two as they sat 
side by side. 

“We are here to thank you, and to love you, 
for what you did for our precious baby brother,” 
said Miss Lou, kneeling, and putting an arm 
around Mrs. Jenkins. 

But that stricken heart could not look up. 
She heard their voices gladly, and yet with a 
pang of sorrow ; for they were to divide Theo- 
dore’s affections, and she wanted all his love. 

“Look at me, Mrs. Jenkins,” said Miss Laura. 
“You will remember me, I know.” 

“Yes, Mrs. Jenkins, and me too,” said Mr. 


3 2 4 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


Carl. “ Oswald — that is — Theodore has never 
tired telling 11s about your kindness to him. 
We all love you for his sake, and are sorry for 
you in this lonely place. We have come to ask 
you to live with him.” 

“Can you not be happy now, just for Os — 
Theodore’s sake?” asked the colonel. 

“I will try,” she said, behind her apron, still 
pressed to her face, and a heavy sigh escaped 
her lips. 

“Let us go into the other room, Mother 
Jenkins,” Oswald said, rising, and assisting her 
to rise, and then leading her into the front room. 

The lengthening shadows told of night’s fast 
approach. What could all that company do in 
so small a house — one so insufficiently provided 
with beds? But whatever they could do or 
would do, so far as sleeping was concerned, they 
must have something to eat. 

Mrs. Carl and Mrs. Jenkins took that in hand, 
and difficulties disappeared rapidly. 

The front room was commodious ; and its 
furnishings very substantial • and of excellent 
quality, though not rich or ornate. A huge fire- 
place was soon filled with wood, and a fire 
glowed and crackled, illuminating the room, and 
making the company move back, and move 
back again, until a larger circle was formed 
around its ample dimensions. 


A GOOD WILL. 


325 


Oswald entertained his sister and Miss Laura 
by accounts of his home-life there, while the 
colonel and Mr. Carl discussed war news, leav- 
ing Babbitt and Jakey to give attention alter- 
nately to the war news and to Oswald’s remi- 
niscences. 

“If George were only here!” exclaimed Os- 
wald, during a pause in the conversation. 

“Yes, indeed!” said Babbitt. “Then our 
circle would be complete.” 

“It will be, by and by,” said the colonel. 
He did not explain what he meant, and no one 
asked him to explain ; so all fell to meditating, 
gazing in the fire that now glowed in silence, 
for the logs had burned until only form and heat 
remained — an occasional dropping of a huge 
coal from the end of a stick making the only 
noise heard, except the subdued tones that came 
from the kitchen adjoining. 

“Now, then, supper!” announced Mrs. Carl, 
after two hours had slipped by since the great 
fire was built. 

A young turkey had been prepared, and 
graced the table, brown, and temptingly 
savory. 

“This is unexpected !” said the colonel, as he 
paused a moment, looking at the game which 
Oswald’s skill had secured. 

“You do not know Mother Jenkins yet,” said 


326 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

Oswald, “or nothing in that line would be un- 
expected.” 

“Nor mother, either!” said Babbitt, for he 
could not let her miss the share of praise due for 
the feast set before them. 

There was an abundance of other food, and 
all was nicely cooked, and most temptingly ar- 
ranged on the table. 

Without formality — indeed, with a kind of 
abandon — the supper was eaten, and was heart- 
ily relished by all. Oswald was particularly 
pleased. He was living a double existence, and 
reached backward as well as forward in his 
thought. 

The quietest one was Jakey. He felt strange 
and lonely. All there had something of their 
own, except him. He was at their charge. He 
wished it could be otherwise. 

“Mrs. Jenkins,” said Mr. Carl, as they arose 
from the table — where an hour had passed 
almost unheeded — “may we all adjourn to the 
front room, and have a word of prayer?” 

“We would be glad to, Mrs. Jenkins,” said 
the colonel, before that lady could reply. 

“I should like to,” she said, simply, bowing 
her head, and speaking very softly. 

A log of wood laid on tli^ fire burst into a 
blaze quickly, and made a mellow light that 
gilded every piece of furniture, and softened the 


A GOOD WILL. 


327 


features of all present, in harmony with the 
gladness of their hearts and the peace of their 
minds, as they listened to the repeating of the 
Psalm beginning, “The L,ord is my Shepherd.” 
Mr. Carl led in prayer, all devoutly kneeling, 
and Colonel Smith closed in a short but beauti- 
fully-worded ascription of praise. And thus was 
that house consecrated to God, and made sacred 
to Oswald forever. 

Strange enough, no one had yet thought of 
the object of their visit — the examining of that 
paper which Mrs. Jenkins had said concerned 
Oswald. 

There was so much to talk about — so many 
reminiscences of army life, and so much to ask 
Mrs. Jenkins of Oswald’s history — that the hour 
of midnight found them still gathered around 
that fire-place. 

“Where shall we sleep?” said Oswald, when 
some one suggested it was time to retire. 

“My bed is ready,” said the colonel, gaily, 
“and I will gladly share it with the boys here.” 

“All of us?” asked Oswald, in surprise. 

“All of you. It is large enough for a dozen.” 

“O, I see!” said Babbitt. “The floor!” 

“Correct. Such a floor as this, in such a 
house, with such a fire, would have been a bed 
fit for a king, at Donelson !” 

“Or at Mattoon either, for that matter,” 


328 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

said Babbitt, “some of those cold nights last 
spring.” 

“You bet!” said Jakey, shivering, in remem- 
brance of those nights, and the hard bunks with 
scant covering. 

“If you can sleep that way, I have great 
stacks of bed-clothing — blankets, comfortables, 
and such,” Mrs. Jenkins said. 

“That is all we ask,” said Colonel Smith. 

So on the floor the beds were made. 

“We wish you ladies sweet sleep and pleas- 
ant dreams !” the colonel said, as they withdrew 
to the chambers above stairs, where were the 
only two beds in the house. 

The morning dawned gloriously. The air 
was chilly with frost, but the sun shone brightly 
out of a clear sky. All declared they had never 
passed a pleasanter night. A plain breakfast 
was served ; and then Mrs. Jenkins went to the 
little chest in which Mr. Jenkins kept his pa- 
pers, and brought out the document they had 
come to see. 

Colonel Smith took it, and read it over in 
silence first, for he at once saw it was a will. 
It was properly made and witnessed, and aston- 
ished him by its provisions. 

“Do you know what this is, Mrs. Jenkins?” 

“Yes, sir; my husband’s will.” 

“ Have you read it through?” 


A GOOD WILL . 


329 


“No, sir; I have had no heart to.” 

“Have you read it at all?” 

“Yes ; far enough to see he had been kind to 
Theodore.” 

“To me /” exclaimed Oswald, in surprise. 

“Yes,” said the colonel, “he did not forget 
you, brother.” 

“In what way did he — ” commenced Oswald. 

“It is not long — let me read it,” the colonel 
said, interrupting. 

And then he read the will amid perfect 
silence. 

To his wife, Sarah Jenkins, he gave all his 
personal property, “of whatsoever kind, to be 
hers to keep or to sell ;” and also “ the tract of 
land, described as follows” — and which was 
known to be the place where they were at that 
time assembled — “to be sold, if she shall so 
elect;” and “whatever money may be found in 
the iron-chest, except such as shall hereinafter 
be bequeathed. 

“To Theodore Tompkins — the person known 
as such, though his real name is something 
else, and believed by me to be the son of a man 
named Smith, who was probably drowned in the 
Missouri River, from which fate the said Theo- 
dore Tompkins, alias Smith, was rescued by an 
unknown fisherman, and by me purchased and 
reared — I devise and bequeath, with a wealth 

28 


330 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


of unrequited affection, all the property owned 
by me in the city of Chicago, described as fol- 
lows ” — and then came the description of the 
lots — “as recorded in the office of the register 
of deeds. 

“To Jacob Jacobus and wife, or to their 
heirs, if they should be dead, I devise and be- 
queath the following described tract of land, to 
be theirs and their heirs, to hold or to sell, lim- 
ited only by the proviso hereinafter to be men- 
tioned ” — naming the tract — “and I also be- 
queath to said Jacob Jacobus and wife, or their 
heirs, the sum of five thousand dollars, which 
may be found in the iron-chest hereinbefore 
mentioned.” 

Then came a clause providing for the exe- 
cution of the will, and the disposal of his mortal 
remains, in which occurred these words: “Could 
the grave of Theodore Jacobus be found, it is 
my will and command that it receive the same 
attention, in every particular, as given to 
mine.” 

“A remarkable document!” said Mr. Carl, 
when the reading was ended. 

“A good will,” commented the colonel. 
All the rest were silent. Jakey hardly compre- 
hended the fullness of his share of the estate. 
Indeed he was not thinking of that so much as 
of the mention of his father’s name ; for, so far, 


A GOOD WILL. 


33 1 


he had received but an imperfect and frag- 
mentary account of the relation of the two 
families. 

“ Let me congratulate you, Jakey,” said the 
colonel, advancing, and taking the boy’s hand. 
“I do not know just where your land is, but I 
hope it is well situated.” 

Jakey moved uneasily in his chair, and said, 
awkwardly: “Land does n’t do much good.” 

“ That is so,” said Mr. Carl, quickly guessing 
Jakey’s meaning; “but we will share your 
happiness, Jakey. We will all be your friends.” 

Mrs. Jenkins was silently weeping. Drying 
her tears for a moment, and steadying her voice, 
she arose, and going over to where Jakey sat, 
she kneeled by his side, saying: 

“Jakey, could you not learn to love me? 
You are alone. I am alone. I wish — I wish — 
I wish you would take Theodore’s place.” 

“No! no! Not my place, Mother Jenkins ! 
Not my place ! Your heart is big enough for 
both of us !” 

“ But you will not stay with me !” 

“No, but you will stay with me !” 

“No,” she said, sadly, still bowed by Jakey’s 
chair. “It is wicked for me to push myself on 
you and yours. I love you, Theodore — I love 
you — for you were always good to me, but I 
want you to be free from me. I can only bring 


332 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


dark thoughts to you. Let me have Jakey ! I 
must have him for my very own ! 0 sister ! 

sister ! forgive me, if you can !” 

She sobbed convulsively. All were alarmed 
at the intensity of her emotion. 

Mr. Carl said to the colonel, as they stepped 
aside to consult about the matter : 

“ I fear for her mind. She does not seem to 
know what she says.” 

“Very true. What shall we do?” 

Though they spoke in low tones, Mrs. Jenk- 
ins heard their words, for she had sobbed herself 
quiet. 

“No, Colonel Smith, I am not losing my 
mind. I know what I am saying and doing. 
Let me tell you all, and then you will under- 
stand. Help me up.” 

She reached out her hands, and, by the help 
of Colonel Smith and Theodore, stood up ; and 
then sat down by Jakey, who was astonished 
into dumbness by what he saw and heard. 

“There is one little thing to tell yet, and 
then you will know all of my sad story. You 
will hardly believe me, but I can show you 
proof. Jakey ’s mother — Mrs. Jacobus — was — 
was — my own sister!” 

Again she was overcome by weeping. 

“Poor woman!” pityingly said Mrs. Carl. 

“I am so glad!” said Miss Laura. “My 


A GOOD WILL. 333 

heart ached for Jakey. But they can comfort 
each other now.” 

After awhile Mrs. Jenkins became calm, and 
it was arranged that she and Jakey should go 
to Colonel Smith’s home, while he assisted in 
settling the estate ; for Mrs. Jenkins had been 
named sole executrix, and needed his advice 
and help, not to mention the pleasure Oswald 
would find in entertaining them in his own 
home. 

“I had thought of asking Jakey to come to 
our home, and become chief steward and 
butler ; but I guess not now !” said the colonel, 
laughingly, as they prepared to leave that after- 
noon to go by and see George, Jakey having 
concluded to remain a day or two, and “ come 
out ” with his aunt. 

“I wouldn’t mind,” said Jakey, smiling 
broadly, for his manner had changed wonder- 
fully since he knew he was not a penniless 
orphan, but a nephew of a well-to-do aunt, not 
to mention his own legacy. 

“I would, though!” said Oswald, decidedly. 

“What will I do without Jakey?” said Miss 
Laura, looking out of the carriage at her loss, 
as he stood arm in arm with his aunt. 

“You might get another orphan somewhere!” 
said Oswald, innocently, and he meant what 
he said. 


334 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


“ Perhaps !” said Miss Laura, blushing un- 
necessarily, and then added, ‘‘but I wouldn’t 
want him to turn out an heir to a home.” 

“He might give the home to you! How 
would that do?” 

“Oswald, I am afraid this trip will be too 
much for you,” said Miss Lou, with solicitude, 
as she noted how wearily Oswald sank back in 
the cushions as the carriage rolled away. 

“I am afraid so, too,” he said, with closed 
eyes, his head thrown back against the seat. 
“I am not used to such romantic surroundings.” 

“How would you like to be where Jakey is?” 
his sister asked, meditatively. 

“I have been there.” 

“Yes, but now?” 

“Prefer this.” 

“What will George say when he hears about 
Jakey?” 

“Great Scott !” 

“Oswald!” said his sister, “I never heard 
you use such an expression before ! You 
startle me!” 

“You wanted to know what George would 
say, and I told you.” 

“O!” 

“You are improving!” said Miss Laura, 
brightly, addressing Oswald. “I never knew 
you to be so light-hearted and gay.” 


A GOOD WILL. 335 

“No wonder!” said Oswald, enthusiastically. 

“Why?” she queried. 

“I have swapped places with Jakey!” 

“O!” 

Miss Lou and Mrs. Carl smiled knowingly. 

When they drove into the town of Oconee, 
just at nightfall, and stopped at the principal 
hotel, they found George waiting for them there, 
according to previous arrangement. 

“Where is Jakey?” he demanded, as soon as 
they were in the reception-room, the hostler hav- 
ing taken charge of the teams. 

“I must tell you about Jakey,” said the colo- 
nel, and briefly narrated the facts, ending by 
saying: “So Jakey is coming along, in a few 
days, with his auntie.” 

“Great Scott!” said George. 

Miss Laura and Oswald burst into laughter, 
and that worthy looked on in amazement, 
smiling in spite of himself, and asking, inno- 
cently : 

“ Is it a guy ?” 

“I am tired of buggy-riding,” said the colo- 
nel, after supper. “The train leaves here at 
eight o’clock. We can be at home by eleven, 
and Mr. Carl can get home by half-past nine. 
I have hired two men to drive the vehicles 
through to-morrow. We will all go home to- 
night at my expense.” 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


33 6 

And so they did — in part. But Miss Laura 
and Oswald declared that a twenty-mile drive, 
the next day, would be an excellent constitu- 
tional for Oswald. The colonel, however, would 
not hearken to such a scheme. 

“I am so anxious father should meet you, 
Miss Lou,” said Miss Laura, as she and Mr. Carl 
and family were preparing to leave the car at 
their station. “ Stop over to-night with us. He 
leaves for the Bast to-morrow, to be gone several 
weeks.” 

“But Oswald,” pleaded Miss Lou; “I must 
go on with him, for I am really afraid he is 
fatigued already.” 

“He is, no doubt; so you both ought to 
stop.” 

“Do,” said Babbitt, “and let Oswald spend 
to-morrow with me.” 

“You come up,” urged Miss Laura; “that 
will tire him less.” 

And so it was arranged that the colonel and 
George went on home alone. 

The evening passed pleasantly at Judge 
Lawrence’s, after they arrived at ten o’clock, 
and midnight found them about to separate for 
the night. 

“Excuse me, Miss Laura,” said Miss Lou, 
as she was bidding her young friend good-night 
at the door — “your mother?” 


A GOOD WILL. 337 

“Mother went home before I could know 
her. Papa and I are all of the family. ” 

“Poor child!” she replied sympathetically. 
“What home is there where death has not 
come?” 

29 



(Z^apteK xxviJJ- 

A GOOD BEGINNING. 

I T was June, after four years and a half had 
passed since the events of the last chapter. 
For four full years there had been no war in 
the land, the last gun having been fired in 1865. 

Business had developed rapidly, and no one 
had prospered more steadily than Colonel Smith. 

“Let us go through the morning mail, Er- 
nest,” he said to his private secretary, “and 
then we will go down to the depot to meet 
the boys.” 

Ernest Henry had already run the letter- 
opener under the flap of each envelope, and 
had placed them on the colonel’s desk for his 
inspection. He sat near by, with note-book in 
hand, ready to take down the replies his employer 
would dictate. 

“Aha! Jakey writes they have struck a five- 
foot vein of coal on his place, and that it is of 
excellent quality. That will be the making of 
that town. So he will not be here for a week 
338 


A GOOD BEGINNING 


339 


or two yet. I must push on that railroad proj- 
ect. Jakey surprises me in his business capa- 
bility. Never thought it was in him. Say to 
him, I wish him abundant success, and to com- 
mand me for any financial assistance he may 
need. Got that?” 

“All down, sir,” said Ernest, smiling. 

“All down!” the colonel exclaimed. “You 
did n’t write what I said about him ?” 

“O no, sir! Do you not think I know you 
yet?” said Ernest, smiling; for he had learned 
to separate the colonel’s confidential comments 
from his dictated replies. 

“Here’s one from Judge Eawrence. They 
sail for Europe the first of July, and may visit 
Palestine before they return. I hope they will. 
Eou always had a strong desire to visit the 
Holy Land. Say to him that I should certainly 
join them at New York, if I were not tied hand 
and foot here. I expect to have some leisure 
after awhile, but not now. I am glad Laura 
has finished her college course with such honor. 
I knew she would. Nothing she does surprises 
me. She is a very sweet girl. Tell Lou to be 
good to the judge, and bring him back safe. 
That will amuse the judge, and please her. 
Got it?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“All of it?” 


340 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

“Not quite.” 

“That’s right. Don’t put in what I say 
to you.” 

“No, sir.” 

“Ah, here’s a letter from Mr. Carl ! Fine 
old man. Never saw a happier man than he 
was when the war closed. His face was like 
the sun, that night he brought Babbitt down to 
our jollification over the surrender at Appo- 
mattox. He wants me to come up to their 
Sunday-school convention. Wonder if he thinks 
I have nothing else to do ? If he does, he is 
fearfully deceived. Say to him, I will come. 
Would n’t miss it for a small fortune — just to 
see his face shine, when the children sing. Ah 
me ! He is a saint, and is ’most too good for 
this earth. Got it?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, leave out that ‘saint’ business. It is 
a fact, but he need n’t be told it.” 

“All right, sir.” 

“A letter from George. Wants to know 
whether he shall buy a big stock of flannels for 
next winter, at fifty cents on the dollar of their 
value. Rather hot day for flannels, but at that 
price, say to him, yes, and wire the reply ; and 
add, ‘Took out for moths!’ He will under- 
stand. Wonderfully sharp buyer, if he does joke 
every hour of the day. Got it?” 


A GOOD BEGINNING . 


341 


“All down, sir.” 

“Not the ‘jokes?’ ” 

“Only the ‘ moths.’ ” 

“All right. Keep the ‘ moths ’ down, and we 
are safe.” 

“Ah, a note from Laura, herself! Wants me 
to be sure and come to the convention, and 
make my home with her. That is just what I 
will do. Say so, please, and apologize for dic- 
tated letter. That is the only way I can 
get off.” 

“I have it, sir.” 

“Here is an offer for the Chicago property, 
from Briggs & Briggs. Tell the Briggses the 
property is not on the market. The price has 
doubled once in five years, and will double 
again. Fifty thousand is big money, but only 
half of a hundred thousand. Got it?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“What ?” 

“ Property not for sale.” 

“ That ’s right. That ’s enough.” 

“Have proposition to make them?” 

“No. Let it go as you have it. What’s 
this ? Chaplain of the old Fourteenth wants an 
affidavit of service in the field. He will get it. 
He helped me to the ambulance, and staid with 
me a ' whole night afterward. Yes, he was 
there. Put it down on the ‘ specials ’ for this 


342 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

afternoon. I will write it with my own hand. 
Got it?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Ah! One from Mrs. Jenkins. Is afraid 
Jakey is spending too much money on that coal 
project. Well, she knows better by this time. 
Tell her to meet me at the Sunday-school com 
vention. We can talk it over then. It will do 
her good to get out to the meeting. Is it 
down?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“The rest we must leave until we come back. 
Just have time to make the train.” 

The colonel’s carriage drove up to the depot- 
platform just as Oswald and Babbitt left the 
cars. They were returning from Commence- 
ment at the university, where both had gradu- 
ated. Though so much Babbitt’s senior, Os- 
wald did not have his knowledge of books, but 
was compelled to keep along in the same classes ; 
for without Babbitt’s patient review instruction, 
Oswald could not have finished his course in the 
four years. 

Presently they were rapidly rolling toward 
Oswald’s home. 

“And now for business, I suppose?” the 
colonel said, after inquiring particularly about 
the Commencement exercises. 

“I am anxious to begin,” said Oswald. 


A GOOD BEGINNING. 


343 


“And I am anxious to have you. I need 
some one. I could not possibly leave to at- 
tend Commencement. Sister Lou was there, of 
course, and the judge, and Miss Laura?” 

“Yes, they were all there.” 

“You enjoyed your run down to the sea, 
did n’t you ?” 

“Ever so much. The week there has rested 
me wonderfully.” 

“ Will you stay with us now, Babbitt, or visit 
home first?” 

“I would like to spend one Sabbath at home,” 
Babbitt said. 

“Certainly. But I am so crowded that I 
am anxious to have you as soon as possible 
thereafter.” 

“I am afraid you will find me a hindrance 
for awhile. I have heard nothing for four 
years but Greek, German, geology, and such 
things.” 

“I will risk you where I want you to 
work.” 

A week from that time both Oswald and 
Babbitt were busily at work in Colonel Smith’s 
store, the largest in that place. But neither of 
them had a suspicion of what lay just before 
them, for he had not yet fully matured his 
plans. Besides, he desired that they should be 
free to learn the details of the business in its 


344 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


present aspect, and not be unduly exalted by 
the project he had in mind. 

They were content to take inferior posi- 
tions — -just as any inexperienced employee would 
have done — waiting for promotion to come in 
the regular way. 



(2b aptet* 

A FINAL RECKONING. 

“Ilf HKY are fine men, every one of them, 
Colonel, and you have a right to be proud 
of your charge.” 

Judge Lawrence spoke earnestly and truly, 
and his words of praise were greatly appreciated 
by Colonel Smith, for he had striven zealously 
for twelve years to merit just such a commen- 
dation. 

“It seems queer that it should be so, when 
considered in one light ; and yet it is but the 
fruit of the seed sown and the plant culti- 
vated.” 

The two men were sitting in Colonel Smith’s 
private office, in his Chicago business-house. 
Five years previously, Shepherdstown heard 
with deepest regret that the firm of Smith, 
Bro. & Co. would remove to Chicago, and en- 
gage in an exclusively wholesale business, hav- 
ing built a handsome block of stores on the site 
inherited by Oswald. 


345 


346 THE COLONELS CHARGE. 

“Will you remain on the bench, Judge?” 

“No; I have made up my mind to resign. 
I do not need the salary, as you know, and I 
believe I can devote my time to work which 
will bring better results to humanity. My wife 
is planning a system of relief for the worthy 
poor of the city. I can go with her ; and, with- 
out offensive egotism, I think I can say that my 
name and presence will help her to reach the 
wealthy.” 

“ Jakey made a good sale, I think, from what 
he tells me.” 

“Splendid ! And those who bought him out 
have a bargain.” 

“Jakey is with Sister L,ou in her scheme, she 
tells me.” 

“Yes, indeed. He is an indefatigable worker. 
Never says much, scarcely ever expresses an 
opinion, but after my wife has put her plans 
before him, he quietly carries out every detail, 
and brings back his report as modestly as one 
would who goes to market for a day’s sup- 
plies.” 

“That remark about ‘market supplies’ re- 
minds me — and I laugh at myself every time I 
think of it. Years ago, just after we came home 
from the army, I thought I would make Jakey 
steward at my home ! Think of it !” 

“Well, that is what he is now — a steward. 


A FINAL RECKONING. 


347 

But not for you, nor me, but for the King 
himself.” 

“And his wife is just like him.” 

“Exactly. Never saw a better mated pair. 
Both quiet, both industrious, both sensible, both 
given to good works.” 

“Mrs. Jenkins is still with them?” 

“O yes. She chafes a little at Jakey’s reck- 
less spending of money for benevolent pur- 
poses. He smiles and goes on, and lets her fret 
it out.” 

“Is your house ready, Judge?” 

“We will occupy it about the first of Oc- 
tober.” 

“And Jakey is coming too, then?” 

“Yes ; his home is next to ours.” 

“I have intended running out there ever 
since you wrote me you had bought, but have 
not yet.” 

“Will you go to lunch with me, father,” 
said Oswald, coming in at that moment, “or go 
out home before that time ? Laura is expecting 
you, I believe.” 

“Then I will go out there.” 

“I would go with you, except that I prom- 
ised to lead the noon prayer-meeting to-day, 
and'it is too late to make other arrangement.” 

“ Never mind ; I would n’t have you miss 
that. You will be out at five?” 


34 « 


THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 


“Yes; or before, perhaps.” 

“By the way, Oswald,” said the colonel, 
“do you know where Babbitt is to be next 
Sabbath?” 

“At the North-side Mission in the morning, 
and at Trinity at night. He is to address the 
Alliance at Trinity.” 

“I hoped I could have him at our Sunday- 
school, Sunday morning. It is to be general 
missionary day.” 

“George has no engagement,” suggested 
Oswald. 

“Yes, he has,” laughed the colonel. 

“Where ?” 

“At our school. I put him down on the 
program the first thing. His face is a sermon 
that the children can understand. When he 
feels the pressure of the mission cause, as he 
talks to the children, his usually so happy face 
takes on such a sorrowful appearance that all 
hearts are moved by the sight. He is a phe- 
nomenon.” 

“By the way, Oswald, where will you be 
Sabbath morning?” 

“At our church.” 

“Have no engagement there?” 

“Nothing special. Thought I would like to 
be with father.” 

“O well, he will excuse you.” 


A FINAL RECKONING . 349 

“Certainly, certainly,” said the judge, “if 
you need him.” 

“Well, I do. Come over to our school. 
Give us a talk on — well — I would suggest 
Africa.” 

While they were thus planning for Sunday 
services, Oswald had stood, holding in his hand 
a mass of correspondence, about which he wished 
to confer with the colonel. 

“Judge, here are all the morning papers. 
Excuse me a short time.” 

The brothers withdrew to an inner office, 
and gave attention to their business affairs. 
While thus engaged, Ernest Henry, the head 
book-keeper, brought them a statement of the 
condition of their business as shown by the 
records. 

“1 must show this to father,” said Oswald, 
after they had gone over it together. 

“Certainly,” said the colonel; “or rather, 
I will.” 

“Here, Judge, is our latest reckoning.” 

“Satisfactory, of course?” he said, putting 
down his paper, and giving heed to the facts as 
read by the colonel. 

“Entirely so.” 

“You think my investment here a safe one?” 
he asked, with a twinkle of his eye, addressing 
Oswald. 


350 


THE COLONELS CHARGE . 


“Which investment, father?” asked Os- 
wald, in turn, — “my sister, or your daughter?” 

“No, no, foolish boy! My money.” 

“Will buy you out at fifteen per cent advance 
on original cost,” said Oswald. 

“Not to-day, my son.” 

“Well, here are the figures,” said the colonel, 
after this by-play. “Retail department shows a 
gain in daily sales of $2,565.17.” 

“That is a new department?” 

“Just added this spring. The manufac- 
turing department, devoted exclusively to hotel 
and steamboat furnishings, shows a gain of 
J 1 5,375. 25 for the month ; and, the season for 
steamboats passed through, the hotels are ex- 
cellent yet.” 

“Good!” 

“The wholesale dry-goods foot up an ad- 
vance of twenty-five per cent over last month’s 
business, and is nearly double that of a 
year ago.” 

“Can you stand such rapid development?” 
asked the judge, anxiously. 

“Yes; our foundation is solid. We discount 
all our bills at ten days, and make collections 
promptly.” 

“Babbitt attends to that, I believe?” 

“Yes; he is our ‘credit man.’ Our whole- 
sale notion department is best of all. The sales 


A FINAL RECKONING. 


351 


show a weekly gain for six months of nearly an 
even thousand dollars.” 

“Splendid ! Who has that in charge?” 

“George manages that department. He is 
a judicious buyer, and makes excellent selec- 
tions. There is nothing shoddy or ‘ cheap ’ in 
his stock.” 

“Nor in him,” said the judge. “It is a won- 
der he has never married.” 

“Devotion to his mother,” said the colonel. 

“That need not hinder.” 

“He thinks it does. She is queen in his 
home, and could not give up her throne to an- 
other without a broken heart ; so George goes 
on, and gives her a wealth of affection from an 
undivided heart.” 

“Rare man!” 

“So he is; and queer in many ways, but 
always queer on the right side.” 

“You have built up a splendid business, 
Colonel,” the judge remarked, recurring to the 
matter in hand. 

“So I have, and yet I do not take as much 
pleasure in the business as I do in those asso- 
ciated with me. The business may go in a day, 
or a night — is bound to go some time — to be 
supplanted by another; but these men are im- 
mortal. They can never be taken from me — 
not even by death. I love every one of them !” 


352 THE COLONEL'S CHARGE. 

“Yours has been an eventful and a useful 
life, Colonel.” 

“Eventful, surely. I hope it has been 
useful.” 

“It undoubtedly has been. Whatever be- 
came of your chief clerk at Shepherdstown?” 

“It makes me sad to think of him. Bright, 
ambitious, capable of great things, he is to-day 
an outcast. Occasionally he comes here — for he 
followed us to Chicago — and begs for a job. I 
give him something to do in the basement, but 
he will not stay longer than a week. Drink, 
drink, drink ! Everything goes for drink !” 

“And his wife ?” 

“Dead ! Poor girl, her heart was broken !” 

“Have you Jones with you yet — your old 
book-keeper?” 

' “No. He would gamble; and finally I de- 
tected false entries in the books, and discovered 
he had been making collections and pocketing 
the proceeds. I dismissed him quietly, after 
talking to him and praying for him. He would 
make no promise of amendment, and I had to 
let him go.” 

“I remember you had a young man who left 
the store to study law. You talked to me about 
him once. What has become of him ?” 

“His is another case that grieves me like 
death. I paid his way through law-school. He 


A FINAL RECKONING . 


353 

was brilliant, and succeeded at once ; was elected 
to office, and then commenced drinking. He is 
a wanderer to-day. I saw him last summer, on 
the street here. He told 'me he was singing 
with a traveling patent-medicine troupe, and 
bragged about what a salary he earned. He 
was bloated and boisterous, and made me sick 
at heart. I counted much on his success.” 

“Sad, sad! Too sad!” said the judge, with 
a sigh. 

“But over against those cases I put Oswald, 
Babbitt, Jakey, George, and Ernest, and feel 
amply repaid for all I have done and endured.” 

“Well you may ! Well you may !” 

“And there is one more that T count as my 
boy. He came to our store in Shepherdstown, 
and run errands for a dollar a week. He 
finally earned two, and then five. When we 
came here he left us, and went to the Biblical 
Institute at Evanston. He graduated with hon- 
ors, and has a Church out West. He lived at 
our house until we came here. I notice, by the 
paper this week, that he is building a church to 
cost ten thousand dollars. I have jotted the 
fact down, and will watch for a notice of the 
dedication. Intend to be there.” 

“By the way, Colonel, when my wife was 
gathering up little odds and ends, preparatory 
to removing here, she came across a package of 
30 


354 


THE COLONELS CHARGE. 


letters and other papers that Mrs. Jacobus had 
at our house, and which had been overlooked ; 
and in them found a certificate of purchase of 
a cemetery lot out in Missouri, and we are sure 
there is where their Theodore is buried. So 
Jakey is going out to investigate, and will put 
up a handsome monument.” 

“ Indeed! That is surprising, and very grat- 
ifying to me.” 

“Yes; Mr. Carl is going out with him.” 

“Bless the dear old man!” 

“I say, bless his wife! She was with us day 
and night when my wife was sick of fever.” 

“So I know.” 

“ Tunch-time, and you here yet!” said Os- 
wald entering just then. 

“Reminiscences — reminiscences!” said the 
colonel. 

They went out together, and two hours 
slipped by unheeded. 


The: end. 





















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































■ 


























































































































































































. 







































■ 
























































































































LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



